The Suspect

by Fiona Barton

  I tell him. I can’t ring. I’m persona non grata since the postmortem results and the launch of a murder inquiry. Off the rota. In the long grass. Out. Terry rings me to see if I’m all right, to tell me to take some time off. It’s nice of him. It’s not his fault I’m in this mess, but he’s still a mate. Mick rings, too, of course. But it’s so awkward. We’re all watching our every word.

  I stay in the world of online anonymity, hunting down my quarry. I could make a living doing this, I think. If it all goes wrong.

  The website is all about Lars’s music—hip-hop and grime, apparently. Is that where they shout at one another while they run round the stage? God, I’m so old. But I see he’s posted an upcoming date at a club. In two days. I ring Joe back. He’s gloomy when he answers. “De Vries is one of the most common surnames in the country,” he says. “I’ve just looked and there are hundreds of them.”

  “Never mind that. Pack your grime gear—whatever that is—we’re going clubbing.”

  Joe persuades Terry it’s a goer—“I told him Lars could tell us what was going on at the guesthouse and he might have photos of the girls.” I suspect he said “with Jake” during the conversation, but I don’t say anything. I just want to go.

  Steve isn’t keen. “You’re not working and you need to be here in case Jake turns up,” he says.

  “I am still employed. I’m on compassionate leave. And I’m only going for one night. I’ll be in touch all the time. It’s only across the Channel.”

  “North Sea, actually. Well, if you think it will do any good . . .”

  He’s too exhausted to argue with me further, and I’m grateful.

  BANGKOK DAY 19

  (THURSDAY, AUGUST 14, 2014)

  Rosie was gone. Alex looked again through the window of the room they had shared. Her Girl Guide badge handiwork on the curtains had been unpicked by someone. The bed had a different-colored sheet and Rosie’s rucksack had gone. She tried the handle of the door again, rattling it weakly in its flimsy frame. Mama appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Stop that!” she screeched. “You break it. Rosie not there.”

  “Where is she?” Alex’s head was swimming. It had taken a huge effort to make it up the stairs on her wobbly legs.

  “She’s gone to meet her friends.”

  “What friends?”

  “Dutch boys. She’s gone to find them.”

  Alex stood with her hand still on the handle, trying to process what she was being told. Mama had vanished back down the stairs, her high heels click-clacking on the concrete.

  “But she didn’t have any money . . .” Alex called after her. “You took it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  She walked slowly down to her room. She stopped at the door to the dorm and knocked.

  Jake opened it. It was the first time she’d seen him since the night she’d been taken ill. He looked surprised to see her. “I didn’t know you were up.” There was no warmth in his voice today.

  “Rosie’s gone,” she said.

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “Did you know she was leaving? Did she tell you?”

  “No, no. Why would she tell me? Mama said she’d gone.” And his eyes strayed away from her as if he was anxious to end the conversation.

  “Jake, did she leave any message for me?”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve just said so. Look, I’m sorry I can’t help . . .” And he started to move off.

  “I hate her,” Alex hissed, stopping him in his tracks. “I really hate her. She’s done everything she can to wreck our trip because she is completely selfish. Anyway, she’ll just have to get on with it. It’s her funeral. If she wants to swan off without a word, she can. See how far she gets. Mama said something about her joining Lars, but how can she? She hasn’t got any money.”

  Jake turned to face her. He looked tired and stressed. His lovely eyes were red-rimmed as if he hadn’t slept.

  “Look, don’t worry about Rosie. She was bad news for everyone. You are better off without her,” he said. “Maybe you should think hard about going home. This is such a mess.”

  “What do you mean? Do you know why she’s gone?”

  He shook his head. “You look like you need to go back to bed, Alex,” he added.

  She felt nausea stirring in her gut again and gripped the door. She didn’t want Jake to see her throwing up. Had he seen her being sick before? She tried not to think about it.

  “What happened that night?” she said.

  “What do you mean?” he snapped at her, and she felt unnerved by his change of tone.

  “When I got ill . . .”

  “Oh, okay. I have no idea. It got really busy and Mama sent me to get some more stock from a friend’s bar. You said you’d wait, but when I got back you’d gone. I was a bit pissed off, actually. We were supposed to be going out, remember? I went to look for you. Anyway, Rosie told me that the faithful Jamie had taken you back to your new room.”

  “I don’t remember any of that. I’m really sorry, Jake. I was looking forward to going out with you. Jamie thinks I must have eaten something bad.”

  “Good old Jamie,” Jake said bitterly. And Alex tingled with pleasure despite herself. He sounded jealous.

  “Jamie is just a friend, Jake. I don’t fancy him. We can go out another night—properly this time.”

  “Maybe. Let’s see when you are feeling better . . .”

  “Perhaps I’ll lie down for a bit,” she said and staggered back to bed.

  * * *

  • • •

  As she lay down, she put her hand under the pillow, automatically feeling for her phone. It still wasn’t there; it hadn’t materialized magically overnight, and she sat up again slowly. She had to find it. She emptied her backpack on the bed, then her handbag, sifting through everything over and over.

  “Oh God!” she wailed. Jamie’s head appeared round the door as if he’d been standing outside.

  “Are you okay?”

  “My phone. Someone’s taken it. And Rosie’s gone. And I feel so ill . . .”

  Jamie came in and put his arms round her. “Don’t worry, Alex. I’ll look after you.”

  She was too weak to do anything but relax into his hold, and she felt him rest his chin on the top of her head.

  She tried to reconnect with her anger about Rosie, but it had gone—like she had—replaced by a sick dread about what she was going to tell their parents.

  “I’ve got to find her, Jamie,” she said. “What am I going to tell her mum? She’ll hate me. She told me to look after her, that she was depending on me, and now Rosie’s gone off to Myanmar without any money. She doesn’t even know where it is. Oh God! Can I use your phone to look at my e-mails, to see if she’s been in touch?”

  Jamie hesitated.

  “Please?”

  “Look, don’t waste your time. You are well rid of her,” he said. “She was a complete bitch. You don’t know the half of it . . .”

  “What do you mean?” Alex felt herself going hot. “The half of what?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Sorry, my phone’s being a bit temperamental. Let me get online first.” He fiddled with it for thirty seconds and then threw his head back in frustration. “The bloody Wi-Fi’s down. I’ll go and tell Mama to reboot it,” he said as he disappeared out into the corridor.

  * * *

  • • •

  When he returned, he looked excited. “Mama says she’s had a text message from Rosie. She says she’s sorry and has gone away to think things through.”

  Alex stared at him. “Why didn’t she leave me a message?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s good news she’s gone,” Jamie went on. “I’ll come with you to Phi Phi. You’re going to need a friend to travel with now.”

  She shut th
at idea down with one look.

  “Good news? How can this be good news? It’s a complete disaster. And stop talking about bloody Phi Phi.”

  Jamie looked as if she’d slapped him. She opened her mouth to soothe his hurt feelings but stopped herself. She didn’t have time to look after anyone else. She had to focus on herself for once.

  “I’ll have to tell our parents,” she said, more to herself than to the sulking boy in front of her. “And they’ll want to know what’s been going on. All of it. Oh God, they’ll go mad. They’ll blame me.”

  “What for?” Jamie said. “This is all Rosie’s fault.”

  FIFTY

  The Reporter

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2014

  We arrive in heavy traffic and Joe wants to get a cab into town, but I persuade him that the train will be quicker. And cheaper. I’m funding myself now.

  Nina has booked him into a four-star hotel. “Sounds nice,” he says. “It’s got a swimming pool and gym.”

  “We’re not going to be swimming, Joe. Don’t tell me you packed your Speedo?”

  I grit my teeth and go on Booking.com to get a cheaper rate at his spa retreat.

  * * *

  • • •

  The plan had been to doorstep the club for DJ Rappo’s arrival, but the gig doesn’t start until the middle of the night—eleven thirty, it says on the poster outside the club, and I groan.

  “That’s a twelve-hour wait. And I can’t stay up that late,” I say. “I’ll turn into a pumpkin. Someone here must know where he lives.”

  I can see the looks I’m getting as soon as I step through the door. No one my age normally enters its portals.

  “Hi,” I say to a bored-looking girl wiping down the bar.

  “Er, hi,” she says.

  “Is Lars in yet? DJ Rappo?”

  She laughs. “No, he’ll still be asleep. Doesn’t get up until after midday.”

  “Where is he living these days?” Joe asks. “Since he got back from Myanmar? I heard he had a great trip.”

  “Yeah, he loved it. He’s back in the Gibraltarstraat flat, staying with one of his friends.”

  “Oh, Diederik?”

  “Yeah. Do you know him?”

  “A bit. It’ll be good to see them. Remind me—what number is the apartment?”

  “Forty-two. Second floor. Tell Lars not to be late tonight.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Good work, Joe.” I mean it. We walk fast, following his phone’s directions, and press the button on the panel for flat number 42.

  There is a pause and a sleepy voice says, “Hello,” and someone buzzes us in without waiting for a reply. On the stairs, we speed whisper our plan. “I’ll start,” Joe says. “Go in with the reason we’re here, the fire, et cetera. And you chip in when we get going. Okay?”

  It’s his show today. And that’s fine. His training wheels are long gone.

  “Fine. Don’t tell him my surname, though. I’ll just be Kate. And Sherwood if necessary. It’s my maiden name.”

  We’re still talking when we reach the apartment door. It’s ajar and Joe calls, “Hello?” as he pushes it open. A figure in boxer shorts and a T-shirt appears. He smells musty and his hair needs washing. Badly.

  “Hey, who are you?” he says.

  “Lars? I’m Joe from London.”

  “Do you want Diederik? He’s out but back soon.”

  “Well, I’d like to talk to both of you. I’m a reporter from a British paper.”

  “A reporter? Really? What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

  He sounds aggressive and has taken a step forward, crowding us back toward the front door. We’re about to find ourselves out on the stairs again.

  “Lars, I’m really sorry to turn up unannounced,” I say quickly. “We’d have phoned to make an appointment but we didn’t have a number to call.”

  He falters. He clearly wasn’t expecting politeness. He looks a bit unnerved.

  “We’ve flown all the way from England to see you. We’ve come straight from the airport.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Actually, I don’t suppose I could use your loo? I’m desperate.”

  I fix an apologetic wince on my face. “Please?”

  He falls back and waves us through.

  I take my time so Joe gets a chance to get going. But when I come out of the bathroom, wiping my hands discreetly on my trousers rather than the grubby hand towel, Lars is talking about clubs in Southeast Asia and opening a beer for Joe.

  He doesn’t know, rattles in my head. He doesn’t know about the girls.

  “Thanks so much,” I say. “It was a lifesaver.”

  “So . . .” Joe says nervously. “I was just telling Lars we are writing about backpackers in Thailand.”

  He’s bottled it.

  “Yes. That’s right. More specifically, the dangers young people face when they travel,” I say, pushing us back on track. “It’s obviously prompted by what happened to your friends.”

  Lars looks at me and lifts an eyebrow.

  “Your friends Rosie and Alex in Bangkok.”

  Lars puts down his bottle. “Rosie and Alex? Right. Yeah. So what about them?”

  “When did you get back from Asia?” I ask gently.

  “A week ago. What’s happened?”

  “It’s a complicated story, Lars. Come and sit down.”

  He lowers himself onto the floor and sits cross-legged like a child at story time.

  “There was a fire at Mama’s Guesthouse while they were staying there.”

  “No! When?”

  “In the early hours of August the fifteenth.”

  “Oh my God, we had just left. Me and Diederik. We caught the night bus to Yangon on the eleventh, I think. Rosie came to the bus station to say good-bye. Is she hurt?”

  “I’m afraid so. Rosie and Alex died, Lars.”

  His head jerks and he stares up at me. There is a moment’s silence in the flat while he takes it in.

  “Died? Both of them?”

  “Yes. Their bodies were found after the fire. The thing is, the police believe they were dead before the fire started.”

  “Oh my God, someone killed them?”

  “I’m so very sorry to bring you this news,” I say. “To be the one to tell you. I honestly thought you would have heard about it.”

  He shakes his head. “We’ve been on the road and the Wi-Fi in Myanmar is terrible. I’m still catching up with friends now. Oh God, those poor girls.”

  “Did you spend much time with them?” Joe says.

  “Well, we were together a couple of weeks. Rosie and I got quite close. But not Alex. She didn’t like me, I think. She was with another boy all the time.”

  “Jake?” Joe asks, and I shoot him a warning look.

  “No. Well, she liked Jake very much, I remember. He worked there and he was someone for her to turn to when things got a bit out of hand. Like when she fell out with Rosie. But she was always with Jamie. He was her friend. Following her around like a puppy dog.”

  Jamie?

  “Was Jamie staying there, too? Was he another Brit?” I say. “It’s the first time I’ve heard his name.”

  “Yes. Well, I think so. I can’t tell you much about him—he didn’t talk about himself, really. He preferred to watch people. Maybe he was shy—I don’t know. He was funny, though. He slept on all his stuff in the dorm. Like we were going to rob him! And he had a big thing for Alex. But she didn’t like him that way.” He suddenly snaps his fingers. “Jamie Way. That was his name. I remember now. Rosie used to call him ‘Jamie Always in the Way’ as a joke.”

  Is he the JW in the e-mails? I wonder, trying to reread them in my head. When did she write about JW?

  “Who else was th
ere? The police said there were parties there every night,” Joe says.

  “That’s bullshit. We used to go out most nights. And there were just us six staying while we were there. Four boys in the dorm and the girls upstairs. And the owner, of course. Mama. She was a big character . . .”

  “Big how?”

  “In every way . . . and she knew everyone. She could get you anything you wanted. Mama’s Sweet Shop, she called it.”

  “Drugs?” Joe says.

  “If you wanted them,” Lars replies, suddenly wary.

  “Did Rosie get drugs from Mama?” I ask. She was getting them from somewhere.

  “Sometimes,” he says. “Look, Rosie was fun. We both liked having a good time and she didn’t have a problem with trying new things.”

  “Was anyone else selling drugs there?” And I hold my breath. Don’t say Jake! I shout in my head.

  “You are kidding,” Lars says. “Mama wouldn’t have liked that. She was strict about it. It was her place.”

  “Have you got any photos from the guesthouse?” I ask. He nods and fetches his laptop. “I’ve downloaded them all. I was going to make a collage for the wall . . .”

  But you probably won’t now, I think.

  He pulls up a picture of the six of them. “I put the camera on a timer for a group photo. It was the last evening before we left. It was a great night.”

  They’re in a room with metal bunk beds behind them. And there’s Jake. My heart lurches at the sight of him, thinner than when he left, scruffier, but smiling. Everyone looks like they are having a good time at first glance. But when I reach past Lars and zoom in on the faces, one by one, I see not everyone is laughing. Alex isn’t. And there is a boy standing behind her. His face is blank.

  “That’s Jamie,” Lars says.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The Reporter

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2014

  The Post has used the photo of the friends at the guesthouse big.