Running in Circles: An international mystery with a heart-stopping twist (Lucy Lewis Thriller Book 1)

by Claire Gray

  The phone on my desk begins to ring. Steve slides across on his wheelie chair and snatches up the handset. One of the wires from beneath his computer gets dragged over with him, caught around his foot. Shaking it away, he switches off my monitor.

  ‘Go,’ he hisses, and nods towards the door, which is propped open with a dirty pair of walking boots.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll be back in ten.’

  The other phone starts ringing but Steve waves me away as I try to answer it.

  ‘Okay,’ I say again.

  Actually, it’s a relief to get outside. I’m glad to be away from the phones and the news reports, even though this road is empty and strange. The internet café beneath our office is closed. The signs advertising scuba schools and nightclubs, usually out all along the pavement, have not been displayed. There are no backpackers sitting in the cafés or on the balconies of the hostels. There’s no music; just the sound of drills.

  Thinking of all this, vaguely aware that I’m shaking my head, I reach a food stand. There are normally stands like this all along the street, but this is the only one today. The birds have gone too. I’ve got some money from Steve to tide me over until I somehow get a replacement bank card. My purse, and everything else, is lost inside the hostel. I use Steve’s crumpled up notes to buy a box of noodles. The elderly woman selling them pats my hand and mutters something reassuring.

  I eat as I walk. People ride past on mopeds, their belongings piled up behind them. I wouldn’t want to leave the island now, even if I felt I had a place to go. How can people desert it just as it needs them the most? I flick a dark little mushroom after them as their bikes whine and bounce. But then I feel bad and self-righteous and become, abruptly, aware of the scent of my own sweat.

  I decide to go to Steve’s place, to shower and change, but then I remember I don’t have any more clothes. Everything’s back at the hostel. I’ve lost absolutely everything; all my material belongings and my sense of home too, because this is no longer the island I know. At least I’m not hurt; just some cuts on my feet which are making me walk funny, and this noise in my ears that won’t quite go away. It’s disgusting to feel sorry for myself when people are dead and maimed. But I do feel sorry for myself. I can’t help it, and I want my stuff back. I decide to go get it.

  If I continue down this street I’ll get to the roped off crater where the bomb exploded, and where international news crews are now gathered. Steve’s spent much of the morning there, talking to the police, paramedics, victims. But I’m not ready to go back just yet. It would be like poking a stick into a friend’s open wound.

  I dart along a side street and come out behind my hostel, where the back door is hanging open same as always. There is just a strip of police tape blocking the entrance at waist height. I purposely keep my eyes away from the small swimming pool that’s back here, sunk in a box of concrete between the hostel and the place where the greasy kitchen next door keep their dustbins; Steve’s told me that a plastic sheet has been pulled over the pool to hide what’s been left there by burnt people who fell in last night, looking for relief.

  Around the back door, which residents tend to use more than the front entrance, some posters have been put up. There are photographs with notes scribbled next to them. Messages have been scrawled on the backs of receipts, and across pages ripped from notebooks. People trying to reach their loved ones. I gently run my fingers across the bricks, around these pictures and notes. Look at their smiles. None of us saw this coming.

  I put my noodles down on the steps, duck under the police tape and go inside. Usually I would walk in to the sound of music, laughter, the clunk of cans falling to the bottom of a vending machine. Today I hear work going on out front, my own quick breath, and the creaking of the building. The whole place is dark, but I’m still acutely aware of my surroundings. I didn’t come this way last night because the corridors twist and turn; I thought I’d get trapped. But the way seems clear. I can smell plaster and soot, a tang up my nose which might be blood. Are there bodies under that rubble in reception? I pass the rooms of people I know, but just watch my own feet. No one else is in here; I can feel the building’s emptiness in the air. I keep walking, aware of my stupidity with each step I take.

  In my bedroom, I dart like an insect, grabbing only what I really need and staying away from the edge of the room; in fact, I don’t even look at it, although I can feel the heat of the sun against my skin. I recall walking into the living room of my home one night when I was very young, and my parents were watching a horror film. I remember my mum saying, ‘No, sweetie, don’t look.’ I think of that as I pack my things.

  Chapter Seven

  We stay in the office until after dark. I’m melting into my chair. The light fades and noises from the street grow louder; shouts and passing vehicles. It’s not the usual sort of noise; there’s panic out there, and it reminds me of last night. I begin to tap my feet. Steve has his nose right up by the screen as he reads news reports online. I’m finding it hard to focus on anything other than the shadow of my limbs on the carpet. It looks like the shadow of a dead tree; boughs ready to snap.

  Steve types loudly for a few minutes and then swivels to face me. He says: ‘I feel like a war correspondent. You know, that’s what I always intended to be.’

  I look up at the clock. ‘I keep thinking of how things were this time yesterday when we had no idea. The person, or people, who left the suitcase in front of XS; do you think they were hanging around all evening, watching people get drunker? People who were about to become victims. We might have walked past them, Steve.’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t know. But I expect they’ve left the island by now.’

  ‘I feel like they’re still here watching us,’ I say, trying to hide a shiver.

  ‘We should go to the port,’ Steve says. ‘Talk to the people who run the boats. They may have noticed any suspicious arrivals or departures, right?’

  ‘Yeah, we should. Maybe tomorrow?’

  ‘I think it’s a good place to start.’ Steve nods.

  Eventually we stop answering the phones, and let them ring through to a recorded message; Steve’s voice, wavering and sincere. We can hear requests being left in the background as we type up what we can, and upload information onto our website. I’m steadying my hand to pour coffee when we notice a voice on the phone which sounds different to the others.

  ‘That’s Kadesadayurat.’ Steve grabs for the handset while mopping at his forehead with a stained cloth. We’ve been hoping to speak with Kadesadayurat all day, but he’s been impossible to get on the phone, unsurprisingly of course. He’s been a friend to the newspaper since Steve interviewed his wife five years ago, way before my time; she makes jewellery, and we all get together sometimes to drink whiskey. He gives us stories when we’re running low on them.

  I put a mug beside Steve’s keyboard and watch while he speaks on the phone. I hold my own coffee but don’t drink it, just let the steam pass my face. What could be worse than the night we’ve just lived through? But still I feel icy as I watch his face change. He nods and says that we’ll come to the police station right away.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘Someone at the golf resort has reported Bernard Shuttleworth missing. It looks like he’s been attacked and taken. The police want to speak to you about your conversation this morning.’

  Chapter Eight

  Steve walks with me to the police station. The night’s hot and there’s a hum of nervous energy in the air. A helicopter circles over another part of town. Somewhere nearby a dog is whining.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to help them,’ I say, breathing in a sweet smell, seeing empty beer bottles in the gutter.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Just remember to think before you speak.’

  ‘It’s not like I’m a suspect or anything though.’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Except, I could be, I guess. This must be my fault somehow. I should have paid more attention t
o the things he said. I should have been more focussed.’

  ‘You did just fine. But the thing is, you might have been the last person to see him before it happened. Whatever it might be.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him, honestly,’ I say, trying to be funny. Steve doesn’t laugh.

  Actually, I feel guilty, like I did kill him. There were moments during our meeting this morning when Shuttleworth looked at me in his leering sort of way and I hated everything about him. What if the police see that hatred in me now, and what if it makes them think I murdered him? I keep walking, but perhaps it would be more sensible to turn around and run.

  Vans are parked outside the small police station, and groups of people stand around them, looking professional. Other people sit alone with bags, staring at nothing. There is a noise like a generator, and a murmuring of voices which comes from all around us and occasionally peaks like the screeching of a bird. I notice a woman sitting on the steps with bandages up her arms and some of her hair missing. She looks like a backpacker and vaguely familiar, so I smile at her as we pass. She doesn’t smile back, although her eyes track my movements.

  Revolving doors take us into the reception. Harsh lights beat down on lines of crumpled people in plastic chairs. Phones are ringing. Doors open and close. I feel my lungs tighten, and take a step closer to Steve. The air conditioning works in here; it’s cold. Too cold.

  We introduce ourselves to the female officer at the front desk. She remembers Steve from a past meeting, and they talk for a moment about how awful everything is. I barely know any Thai, so can’t follow. I’ve been meaning to take lessons. Steve learnt by forcing himself into conversations with the locals. He’s close to fluent now. He’s making an effort to be friendly with this lady, but I can see him picking at a scrap of sticky-tape attached to the front of the desk; I know he’s as nervous as I am. A sickness rises inside me again. Oh, please don’t let me be sick here. It’ll make me look like I’m guilty of something.

  Eventually we’re led along a corridor filled with dark glass. Offices on either side are crowded and people have spilled out so that we have to step around them. Everyone’s shouting, arguing, waving pieces of paper around.

  ‘Wait here.’ The police officer leaves us at an unmanned desk.

  We sit in silence. Steve’s leg twitches and touches mine. A man at the next desk is poking pencils into an electric sharpener while he talks on the phone. Someone nearby is humming an operatic tune that I recognise but would not be able to name. Other people are talking in groups. The noise is a big, solid thing. It reminds me of the noise in a school canteen, only with a different, nasty edge. It’s at this moment that our mobile phones regain their signal for the first time since the bomb went off, and begin to chirp like frantic animals.

  ‘Seems like people care about us,’ I say, looking at texts coming in from friends I’ve not spoken to in years. There are messages from people I know from the hostel too, alive after all, and most of them are already far from the island.

  Steve switches his phone onto silent and says: ‘I can’t face them. I’ve been online to prove I’m not dead; that’ll have to do for now.’ This isn’t like him, and my nausea goes up a notch.

  A man shuffles past the desk as I try to text with shaking fingers. I see blood on his trousers. Behind him is a policeman I don’t recognise. I know most of them; it’s only a small department. Steve has mentioned how extra police officers are being shipped in from the mainland to help deal with things. This policeman stops beside my chair, puts a hand on the back of it and leans in.

  ‘Thank you for getting here so quickly.’ He’s young, perhaps the same age as me, which isn’t that young really; I’m nearly thirty. He seems young compared to the other officers moving around behind him, their faces clenched.

  ‘I thought we were going to see Kadesadayurat?’ Steve says.

  ‘Busy.’ The policeman introduces himself but I don’t catch his name. He turns to me. ‘Lucy? We need to talk about statement you made on the phone. Perhaps you can help find Mr Shuttleworth.’

  ‘Sure, of course I’ll help,’ I say, a little too quickly. I immediately rattle off an account of our conversation at the golf resort. I start to talk about the monkey I saw there, and ask what my companions think; did Bernard Shuttleworth bring all the monkeys here with him? But Steve shakes his head at me and the policeman clears his throat.

  ‘He okay when you left?’

  I nod. ‘I left him drinking lemonade.’

  ‘Okay.’ He looks down at the notes which he has written in both Thai and English. ‘You said you ran into one of his staff’s boyfriends at a hotel? Tell me, please, what happened when you spoke to him?’

  ‘I didn’t actually speak to him. He left before I got a chance. I can’t really tell you anything except that he was in a rush.’ I stop to think for a moment. ‘I can describe his car for you. And him. I can describe him.’

  ‘His hotel already did that. They were very helpful.’

  ‘Oh.’ I look around and wonder why no one’s offered a coffee to Steve and me. Everyone else seems to be drinking one, from crinkly plastic cups or chipped mugs. Perhaps it’s because they think I’m a murderer and they don’t offer drinks to those.

  ‘Did you see anyone else at the golf resort?’ Steve asks me, and the policeman nods like this is a very good question.

  ‘No. He said that they only had three rooms occupied. I didn’t see any of those people.’ I remember the child watching us from the doorway but don’t say anything about her. Then something else comes back to me. ‘Actually, as I was leaving I did see a car coming along the road towards me. I don’t know if they stopped at the resort but there’s not much else around there.’

  ‘What kind of car?’ the policeman asks, pointing his pen like a dart.

  ‘A blue one?’ I shrug.

  ‘Same one you saw Dolph driving?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘It could have been. But then he was already at the Imperial Hotel as I arrived there, so I don’t suppose the timing works out.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ the policeman asks, ignoring my questions.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I stare at my battered feet, trying to think of something useful. ‘What do you think happened to him, honestly? You think Dolph attacked him?’

  ‘Like we said on the phone; Mr Shuttleworth has gone missing.’

  ‘But you think he’s been attacked? Someone hurt him?’

  ‘We don’t exactly know,’ the policeman says, looking around, distracted. Steve, beside me, seems to have relaxed. His leg is no longer twitching.

  ‘And what happens next?’ I ask, trying to catch the policeman’s attention as he watches his colleagues, who are trying to catch a bomber.

  ‘We find him. It’s a small island.’

  I say: ‘Do you think Dolph’s involved in the bombing?’

  The policeman doesn’t say anything but he gives his head the smallest of shakes.

  We show ourselves out of the building. On the steps, beneath a fluorescent light and a cloud of humming insects, we turn to each other.

  ‘What do you think happened?’ I ask, desperate. I need to know if whatever happened is my fault somehow, but mostly I just need to know what the story is, because stories are how I see the world. Without them, it’s all just chaos.

  Steve, lighting up a cigarette, says: ‘My guess is that one of his workers came back and did something to him. They would have known the place was near enough deserted.’

  We start along the street, beneath palm trees and the lights of an aeroplane blinking high in the sky, oblivious to all that’s happening down here. Neither of us knows quite where we’re headed.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit dismissive of the evidence though?’ I say. ‘He talks to me and then he’s attacked or kidnapped, apparently. It just seems like the two must be connected.’

  ‘I think it’s a coincidence,’ Steve says.

  ‘You really believe his staff mem
bers hate him that much?’ I have heard some of the rumours about Bernard Shuttleworth, but I know Steve will be aware of every horrible detail.

  ‘He’s rich enough to live above the law. He doesn’t treat his female workers well. What do you think of him?’

  ‘I don’t like him.’ I pause and lean against the glass front of a café.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Steve goes to put a hand on my shoulder but stops just short. He’s noticed that I don’t like to be touched. He’s my friend. Friends notice that kind of thing.

  ‘We should have looked into the rumours about him,’ I say. ‘We’re as bad as the police, letting him get away with whatever he wants.’

  ‘But we’re not that sort of newspaper,’ Steve says, with an uncomfortable smile.

  ‘We should have tried.’

  ‘I did try once. Before you got here. But it’s like you said; he practically keeps us afloat. He didn’t cooperate when I tried to question him, and he made it clear that he’d no longer be advertising in the Koh Star if I, you know, persisted. So…’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, trying not to show how disappointed I am.

  ‘And anyway, it looks like he might have got his comeuppance,’ Steve says. He’s seen how disappointed I am.

  ‘Maybe. I guess that means we’re screwed then. Financially.’ I continue walking. My skin stays cold for a while, where it was pressed against the glass. A moped passes us; the only vehicle on this long street. I think about Shuttleworth and where he might be now. He didn’t seem, this morning, like a man anything bad could happen to. But no one’s safe anymore. I’ve seen what we look like inside our skins and it’s awful. I think I’ve got to the truth of something. This must be how it is to live in nature, to be something’s prey and always vulnerable.

  ‘Come stay at mine tonight. Don’t go back to that faceless hotel. You can sleep on my futon. We’ll have a bit of wine and some pizza. Girls night in.’ Steve laughs.