by Fiona Barton
“But not too scared to push her to one side to get a beer?” Sparkes snapped. “Did you have anything to do with the death of Rosie Shaw?”
“No. I thought maybe she’d got off her face. Maybe she’d choked on her own vomit.”
He’d paused for a beat before offering this theory and Sparkes knew he was almost there. The word “maybe” was a fig leaf. A hedge against the truth.
“How do you know that she choked?”
“I don’t. I’m just guessing. That’s the sort of girl she was. But I wasn’t there so I don’t know.”
“I wasn’t there.” In a minute he’s going to say the big boys made him do it.
“Do you know who was there?”
Jamie picked at the bandage, fraying the threads, and shook his head.
“All right, when was the last time you saw Rosie alive?”
“I can’t remember now. I probably saw her in the bar or something. She was always around.”
“Until she wasn’t,” Sparkes said. “You must have all been talking about it. Rosie vanishing like that. It must have been the only topic of conversation at the guesthouse.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. I was sick of hearing about her, if I’m honest.”
“You didn’t like Rosie?”
“No. I hated her. We both did. Me and Alex.” Jamie had unraveled a long thread and was wrapping it tightly around a finger, making the tip turn white. “She was a little bitch. Always making trouble. Alex tried to look out for her at first but she wouldn’t listen. Taking drugs, having sex with people she’d only just met. She was sleeping her way through the blokes in the guesthouse, you know?” Jamie shook his head in disgust.
“Did you sleep with her, Jamie?”
He looked genuinely shocked. “Me? Of course not. I was faithful to Alex, but pretty much everyone else was in her bed.”
“Jake?”
“Yeah. Like I said before. I told Alex.”
“Did that cause trouble between the men who slept with her? Arguments or fights?”
“Not really. No one liked her enough to fight for her.”
Poor Rosie, Sparkes thought. Poor lost little Rosie.
“What drugs was Rosie taking?”
“K mainly. Lars got it for her before he left.”
“Where was he getting it?”
“From Mama. Everyone knew she sold K, weed, and yaba. And a bit of heroin sometimes.”
“And roofies,” Sparkes said, leaning forward, and Jamie looked away.
He was tiring. Sparkes was turning to Salmond to signal the end of the interview when Jamie spoke again.
“Can I ask a question now?”
Sparkes looked back at the boy. Jamie was looking up through his lashes again as if he wanted to please Sparkes, unsettling the detective.
“Er, yes. What do you want to ask?”
“Have you talked to Jake?” he said. “You should ask Jake about what happened to Rosie.”
SIXTY-NINE
The Reporter
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2014
Bob Sparkes sounded very serious on the phone. And he cut me off when I tried to ask about Eileen and how the funeral had gone.
“I can’t get into that now. I’m ringing on official business. DS Salmond and I are driving up to London now. We need to speak to Jake. Is he home?”
“Yes, he hasn’t left the house since we got back. He’s with Joe Jackson at the moment being interviewed about the whole nightmare. He wouldn’t let me do it—suppose it would have been a bit weird. Anyway, Joe is on the case. A miscarriage of justice finally righted.”
I’d made Joe wait a couple of days. I said Jake needed to rest, but the truth was that I needed to hear the story first. To make sure it was safe to tell.
“Is this to tidy up loose ends or something? I thought you and DS Salmond had finished talking to him. He made his statement in Bangkok.” I kept my tone light, but my head was buzzing with unwanted thoughts.
“We’ll be with you in another hour.”
* * *
• • •
I put the phone down and stick my head round the door of the living room where Jake and Joe are talking. “Can I have you for a minute?” I say to my son.
He lopes out, shoeless and in a pair of Freddie’s slightly too-short jeans.
“I’ve just had DI Sparkes on the phone. He’s coming to see you. Needs to tie things up. Loose ends. You know.”
Jake’s face falls.
“It’ll only be a quick chat, I’m sure,” I say, but we look at each other for a beat too long. “You’ve made your statement. Anyway, how’s it going in there? Is he asking the right questions? Are you sure you don’t want me to sit in?” I keep my voice bright, but Sparkes’s call has made my stomach tense, as if preparing for a blow.
“No, we agreed. Anyway, what did the police say? Exactly?” Jake asks.
“Just what I told you.”
“Do we need to ring your lawyer friend?”
I look at my son and try to see what he’s thinking. “I don’t know. It could look like you have something to hide if we have a lawyer present . . .”
“I’m just saying it might be best. I don’t want any trouble.”
“No, of course not. I’ll ring him to see what he thinks. Leave it with me.”
He nods and is about to say something else, but I cut him off. “We need to go shopping for clothes before Mick does the photographs,” I say, trying to get us back on track. “You came home with nothing.”
And then I remember the pair of trousers he left at Ross’s.
Joe appears in the doorway. “Okay to get going again, Jake?” he says. “I’m on deadline.”
“Okay. Will you make us a cuppa, Mum?”
* * *
• • •
DI Sparkes knocks quietly and I swing the door wide open in welcome. Nothing to hide here.
“How are you doing?” I say. But the intimacy of the hotel room in Bangkok has gone. He doesn’t look me in the eye as he comes in, wiping nonexistent dirt from his feet on the mat.
“Is Jake here?” he says.
“Yes, I said so on the phone. He’s through there. With Joe Jackson.”
“Perhaps it’s best if you remove the reporter from the room,” he says to DS Salmond. I go to protest, but he silences me with a look.
Salmond goes into the living room and there’s a short exchange before Joe comes out, pushing his laptop into his bag. He’s not happy.
“What’s going on, Kate?” he says. “I’m being chucked out.”
“Go and have a coffee down the road,” I say. “The police just need to have a word with Jake. I’ll give you a call in a bit . . .”
I have no idea if I will, but I just want him to go. For him not to witness what is unraveling in my own house.
I close the front door on Joe and go through to the living room. Jake is sitting on the sofa, pale and coughing nervously.
“What is this about?” I say. My voice sounds angry. But I feel more frightened than outraged.
Sparkes looks away. He is arresting Jake in connection with the death of Rosie Shaw on or about August 13, 2014.
Jake stumbles to his feet.
“We will be taking you to Southampton for questioning.”
“You need shoes, Jakey,” I say and try to catch his eye. He turns away from me and I can’t speak.
SEVENTY
The Reporter
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2014
We’d agreed I wouldn’t say anything if the police ever came back. We’d been sitting together, my son and I, the night before last, while the others slept. Both of us still on Thai time.
I’d tried not to interrogate him on the plane home, gently teasing out the details of his time in Bangkok while we ate our food, but he�
�d tired quickly and fallen asleep beside me.
Steve had asked all his questions in the car from the airport, never pressing our son, letting him meander off into the minutiae of life in the guesthouse and prison. Safe ground. Freddie had listened in silence. We’d all let him off lightly.
We’d fed him and run a bath for him. And let him sleep. “We’ve got him home,” Steve had said when we finally fell into bed that first night. “I can’t quite believe it.”
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” I so wanted it to be wonderful, but What isn’t he saying? was drowning out the cheers of joy. “We need to talk to him properly, Steve,” I’d said, turning to face my husband.
“We will,” he’d murmured, already half asleep. “Plenty of time.”
I lay beside him, rerunning every word Jake had said, testing the statements at the core of his story, pushing at the details that propped them up, probing them like a bad tooth, looking for the weak point. But I caught myself holding back when I got too near. When something jarred.
“Why would he lie?” became my mantra.
* * *
• • •
“I think I know what happened to Rosie,” he’d said quietly.
“You’ve told us what you know, Jake,” I’d said, desperately shoring up the family conspiracy to stick our fingers in our ears.
He’d looked at me and I’d held my breath.
When he didn’t speak, I’d whispered, “Okay. Tell me the truth, Jake.” Like I did when he was small and I’d found a broken ornament or a missing packet of biscuits.
“She was drinking from a bottle of fake tequila when I last saw her. She was lying on her bed, shouting at me. I thought she’d be fine—she’d just have a hangover in the morning. But she wasn’t fine. She died, Mum.”
“When did she die?” I’d whispered.
“I don’t know. Sometime between me leaving her and Mama trying to wake her the next morning.”
I’d felt my hands tightening around my mug of hot milk.
“Okay,” I’d said carefully, hardly trusting my own voice. What did you do? I was screaming in my head. Oh God, did you kill this girl?
“Why was Rosie shouting at you?”
Jake’s head sank onto his chest. “We were both a bit drunk and upset.” His voice had petered out.
“What about?”
“I shouldn’t have slept with her.” He’d looked up, eyes wide with distress. “But she kept on and on about wanting me, touching me, kissing me. And we did it. We had sex. But I knew she was just doing it to get back at Alex. She had this smile on her face. Like she’d won. It was horrible and we had a row. I told her not to tell Alex and she laughed. I told her to shut up, that Alex might walk in on us, and she yelled in my face that Alex couldn’t. That Jamie had put something in her drink. To stop her going on a date with me. Mama had seen him do it. She was yelling that she was going to tell Alex. Tell her everything. The whole guesthouse could hear. I was scared, Mum. Everything was so out of control. I just wanted it all to stop and I left her there.”
“God, what a nightmare,” I’d heard myself say. I could see it. I could hear the anger in their voices. I could smell the sharp stench of loathing. I’d kept looking at my son, afraid that if I looked away, there would be a stranger there when I looked back.
“I was sure she’d tell Alex when she woke up. But she never got the chance,” he’d gone on. “Mama found her dead the next morning when she went to talk to her about money. She came and woke me up and told me.”
Jake had taken a deep breath. “Mama said Rosie must have choked in her sleep. She said she had sick all over her hair, Mum.”
“Oh God,” I’d said, horrified at what I was hearing. “But you didn’t tell anyone. Why didn’t you call an ambulance? Or the police? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
He’d closed his eyes and put his hands to his mouth as if to shut himself off completely. But I wouldn’t let him stop now.
“Jake, tell me!” I’d said, pulling his hands away. “Did you hurt her?” I couldn’t bring myself to use the word “kill.” It’s too finite. It cannot be unsaid.
He’d thrown his head back in shock. “No! Why aren’t you listening to me? I didn’t do anything to her. I knew you wouldn’t understand—you weren’t there. You don’t know what it’s been like, my fucked-up life. All I can tell you is that I had to keep quiet . . . there was going to be terrible trouble. Mama said it would be like the last time.”
“The plasterer who died,” I’d whispered.
Jake had nodded. “The police came that time, questioning all the foreigners in the guesthouse. Mama said I’d be arrested and locked up because I didn’t have the right visa. They can throw away the key, Mum. I gave her all my money to sort it out for me. She sent me to her home village for a while, and when I came back, it had all been dealt with. The police said John had killed himself.”
“But he hadn’t?”
Jake shook his head wearily.
“He’d been attacked in his room and robbed.”
“Christ! Who attacked him?”
“I don’t know,” he’d said. “He was doing all sorts of risky stuff and hanging around with dodgy people. But this time it was going to start all over again with the police. I’d slept with Rosie the night she died. I thought I’d definitely be arrested. And this time I didn’t have any money to pay Mama to deal with it.”
“It? You are talking about an eighteen-year-old-girl, Jake,” I’d said.
“I’m so sorry, Mum.”
And I’d listened, increasingly numb to his pleading, the excuses curdling in my stomach.
Perhaps he’d sensed my heart hardening, but he’d chosen that moment to deliver his coup de grâce. “And no one knew where I was. You and Dad didn’t know. I’d made sure you didn’t. I’m sorry—but my life was a complete mess. I didn’t want you to know. I kept thinking about how you and Dad used to joke-boast to people about me becoming a barrister. You put such pressure on me, Mum. I know you didn’t mean to, but you did. And I was cleaning toilets in Bangkok. I needed to turn things round, get a real job or something so I could come home a success. But time just kept passing.”
I’d reached over and taken his hand. “I didn’t know you felt like that.”
“I’ve been an idiot, but I had no one to turn to. You’d have known what to do, Mum, but I couldn’t bear for you to know. Please help me now. They might put me in prison. They won’t believe I have nothing to hide. Please . . .”
And my failure as a parent had spread through me like a black poison, obliterating every other thought and feeling. We weren’t there for him. This was our fault. My fault. Later, I wondered if I would have acted differently if he hadn’t said that. But it was too late by then.
* * *
• • •
We’d sat in silence for a while, the only sound the ticking of the clock like the heartbeat of the house. Then I’d done what I always do, asked endless questions.
“Who else knows you kept quiet about Rosie’s death, Jake?”
“No one. Well, Mama. But she won’t say anything, obviously.”
“Could anyone else have heard her telling you?”
“I don’t know. She made a lot of noise, but Alex was drugged and out of it. So that leaves Jamie. Jamie Always in the Way,” Jake had said to himself.
We’d talked on and on and round and round, but in the end, he’d persuaded me that nothing could be gained by speaking up. He’d held my hands and looked me in the eye as he’d summed up—my son the barrister . . .
“Rosie died and no one was to blame. Even if Jamie did hear Mama telling me, he’s a murderer, isn’t he? Who would believe him? We are talking about the rest of my life, Mum.”
I’d felt so vulnerable. Like when I’d first held him when he was a baby. The all-consuming fear that I might do the wr
ong thing and harm my child had made me cry then. I’d been overwhelmed by the responsibility. I was out of my depth but I had to keep him safe, help him grow, do the right things. I’d carried the burden in the pit of my stomach, seeing danger everywhere. Steve had tried to help, explaining it all to me—postpartum hormones, maternal instinct, blah blah. But it was visceral, all-consuming. I’d thought it was over when our son got big enough to look after himself, when we waved him off to university. But it is never over. Here I was again, holding his future in my hands.
And I’d gone along with it.
SEVENTY-ONE
The Detective
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2014
Jake didn’t speak in the car. He watched the other vehicles through his window until they pulled up at the police station. He hadn’t had time to do up his laces before he’d been led to the car, and his feet slid in and out of his old trainers, making him stumble.
Salmond steadied him. “Through here.” She guided him into the custody suite, presenting him to the grumpy-looking sergeant at the desk. Sparkes watched the ritual, ticking off the steps before they could talk to him.
Jake was silent unless spoken to. He’s retreated into his head, Sparkes thought. Is he rehearsing his story? Has he told Kate what he’s done?
His only words were, “This is better than Klong Prem.”
* * *
• • •
“Can you give your name for the record?” Salmond said when they were all sitting in the cramped interview room. Jake looked even younger than before with his schoolboy glasses and bitten fingernails.
“Now, then,” Sparkes began. “Why don’t we start with your relationship with Rosie Shaw.”
“I didn’t have one. I hardly knew her,” Jake said.
“Alex said she was flirting with you.”
“Alex?” He looked completely confused.
“In e-mails she sent to her friend Mags. She said Rosie was trying to steal you from her.”