by Fiona Barton
“Why have they used her picture? What has she got to do with this? His bit on the side. Did you know she worked for him? A temp in the office. What a cliché. Left us for her with her sixty words a minute and push-up bras. After twenty years of marriage.”
“Jenny,” I try softly. “I know how upset you are. Don’t let this make it worse. We both know she looks ridiculous, dolled up like that for the cameras when your daughter is missing.”
Jenny snorts. It’s what she wants to hear.
“You’re right. I hope people will see her—and him—for what they are. Self-centered. This is all about them. Mike barely mentions Rosie. It’s all about how he feels. Bastard.”
“Quite. Look, Jenny, I just wanted you to know that it’s you the Post wants to help.”
“Right. Yes. I’m definitely not speaking to that rag the Herald.”
Result. But don’t crow. I need a new line.
“Anyway, how are you doing? Apart from this, I mean. Did you manage to get some sleep last night? Have you heard anything new?”
“I haven’t been off the phone all morning. First Mike’s mother bleating on about her bank making a mistake. I cut her off when Lesley’s number came up on my mobile. There are more possible sightings that have been posted on the Internet. But they don’t really sound like our girls.”
“I’ve seen them, too, Jenny. But, like you say, there’s nothing that springs out. Did you see the one that said two girls—one blond and one dark like Rosie and Alex—were in a café talking about catching a bus to Laos? Says the blond girl had a tattoo of a gecko on her shoulder.”
“Rosie hasn’t got a tattoo. I said no. So common and a health risk.”
She might have had one done without telling you, I think. You’re not there to say no anymore.
I make Steve another coffee and update the online story to include the tattoo sighting.
I decide to send Don to visit tattoo parlors and bus companies with photos of the girls, but he laughs when I ring him. “I’ll have a go, but there are too many for me to make much of a dent. Usual day rate?”
“And any luck with Bates Motel?” I ask.
“Have you ever been to Bangkok, Kate? There’s a chain of them here. You wouldn’t keep a dog in some of the rooms.”
“Oh, get on with it. Call me before you go to bed.”
She rang the number she had for Mike Shaw. She had to. Cover all the bases.
BANGKOK DAY 7
(SATURDAY, AUGUST 2, 2014)
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
Subject: ROSIE!
Hi Mags,
I’m a bit worried about R. She’s hooked up with two Dutch boys in the dorm now Shaun has gone. And Rosie’s completely out of it tonight. Can’t get any sense out of her. She’s just sitting there, panting, and her eyes are all glazed and scary. God knows what she’s taken. I asked Lars—one of the boys—but he just laughed. Said she was fine, he’d taken something, too. I’m putting her to bed and I’ll try to talk to her about it in the morning.
She’s gone a bit mad since we got here. She’s working her way through the bars down Khao San Road so I have to listen to her stories of setting her hair on fire with Flaming Sambucas (is that how you spell it?) and Ping-Pong balls being shot out of fannies. FFS. Not sure which one R is sleeping with, Lars or Diederik? Or both? I think she’s on a mission to work her way through the inmates!
She’s definitely not interested in seeing the real Bangkok. She says nothing is real here. It’s all fake. It’s all about having fun. That’s why she loves it. And I’m just jealous. As if . . .
I’m trying to ignore it and have a good time but it’s hard sometimes. What are you up to? Have you decided if you’re going to school in October? E-mail soon and tell me everything. Better go and see where Rosie is. I thought we’d be doing things together but it isn’t working out like that. I can hear you saying told you so. Should have listened, shouldn’t I? Too late now. It’ll be all right, A x
Mags had tried to warn her when she found out Rosie was to be her substitute.
“Are you sure, Alex? Do you even know anything about her?”
“Of course I do,” Alex had snapped. “It’ll be fine. And it’s not as if it’ll be just us. We’ll be meeting people all the time.” She’d wanted to add, “And this is all your fault,” but couldn’t face any more of Mags’s guilty tears.
“Well, they say you don’t know someone until you have been on holiday with them.”
“Thanks, Mags. Not helpful.”
But Mags had been right.
* * *
• • •
Alex was trying to tune Rosie out and watching huge storm clouds roll up from behind the tower blocks. And when the daily rains crashed onto the roofs, she buried herself away in dog-eared books left by other travelers and she posted on Facebook. She wrote funny stories about monks watching soap operas on their phones in the temples, and how the local stallholders set up a tent of umbrellas and slipped shower caps over their hair to keep dry in the epic downpours.
She read them out to Rosie to begin with but stopped after she announced she was “so over temples.” She’d been to a couple on the second day, but that had been her limit, apparently. “Been there, done that, and I don’t want to hear another chanting monk again in my life,” she told everyone in the bar.
“No offense,” she’d added for the benefit of the listening Mama, who’d bared her teeth in a dead-eyed smile and continued to stare at the girls from behind the bar, unnerving Alex. But Rosie didn’t seem to notice.
She was too busy telling everyone in the bar she wanted a tattoo. A big one of a gecko like Lars had.
ELEVEN
The Detective
SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 2014
Sparkes was on the phone to the hospital when Salmond appeared at his office door in a running outfit, exuding health and efficiency.
He waved her away, mouthing, “Busy,” and she jogged out.
“Bloody hell, Eileen,” he said down the phone, “I thought I’d have a bit of peace and quiet coming in at the weekend, but Zara’s in and looks like she’s on another get-fit kick. Don’t think I can bear her lectures.”
His wife laughed. “She’ll have you in Lycra before you know it. I’m going to have a little sleep now. This morphine is marvelous.”
“I’ll be in later. Love you.”
She snorted. “Bugger off and catch some criminals.”
* * *
• • •
Salmond had showered and changed into her work clothes by the time she reappeared, a freshly tied damp bun pulling on the fine hairs at her temples.
“Didn’t know you’d be in today, sir. I’m catching up on some revision for my exams. But I thought you’d like to know we’ve had a call from Rosie Shaw’s granny,” she said.
“Oh yes. Has she heard from her?”
“No, but she’s reporting a theft from her bank account.”
Sparkes sat back in his chair.
“Go on.”
“She’s not sure exactly how much has gone, but she thinks it’s around two thousand. Well, she’s got a load of accounts for different bits of her finances—stocks and shares, dividends, all that. She only realized there was a problem when her bank manager rang her.”
“What? She didn’t notice that two grand had gone?” Bob said. “Eileen would know if fifty quid disappeared.” That used to be Eileen’s department, but he wondered when she’d last looked. “And do they still have bank managers? Thought it was all call centers now . . .”
“Well, that’s what she called him. The bloke who rang, whoever he was, said she was overdrawn without an arrangement. First time in her life, she says.”
“And?”
“She thinks someone has taken money from her account with
out her knowing.”
Sparkes sighed. Old people and money. His father had banked his life savings in his chest of drawers. When he died, he and his brother had found hundreds of ten-pound notes carefully folded into socks, underpants, and handkerchiefs.
“Who does she think took it? Not Rosie, surely?” he said.
“Well . . . it looks like it might have been. The bank says there was an electronic transfer of two thousand pounds to Rosie’s account before she left. But Jenny Shaw told me Rosie was given the money to go on this trip by her father.”
“Could the grandmother have got confused? How old is she?”
“Eighty-something but sharp as a tack.”
Sparkes tried to concentrate on what he was being told.
“So two grand left the grandmother’s account and ended up in Rosie’s account? Could she have done it herself? And why didn’t the bank raise the alarm earlier?”
“It didn’t trigger an overdraft straightaway. Some direct debits went out yesterday and they put Granny Shaw’s account in the red.”
“The question is, could this be connected with Rosie’s disappearance?”
Salmond shrugged. “Maybe she thought she was about to be found out. Maybe she decided to go into hiding.”
“But what about Alex? Why would she run away?”
“Don’t know. Perhaps she was an accomplice?”
Sparkes sat forward.
“Who are you talking to?”
“The bank’s fraud department to nail down the dates, and I’m going to see Rosie’s father, Michael Shaw, at home this afternoon.”
Sparkes heard the edge to her voice.
“What? Come on. What are you thinking? What’s your instinct on this?”
Zara Salmond smiled. “I thought you weren’t doing gut reactions anymore, sir.”
Sparkes made a face. He had sworn off listening to his gut after the Bella Elliott kidnapping case, when his obsession with the suspect, Glen Taylor, had caused the collapse of a trail and almost ended his career.
“I’m not. Well, not in the paperwork, Sergeant. But you always get a feeling.” He looked at her meaningfully. They’d been through a lot together.
“I don’t know. Something’s not right,” Salmond said.
“About?”
“About Rosie’s father. I spoke to him yesterday, when his daughter was reported missing, and he was a bit closed, if you know what I mean. Didn’t have much to say or ask. As if she was a stranger.”
“Perhaps he was in shock?” suggested Sparkes.
“Yes, but he’s making a big show of appearing devastated in the papers today.”
“Do I detect a note of cynicism?”
“My gut didn’t like him.”
“Is that so? When are we talking to him?”
TWELVE
The Detective
SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 2014
Mike Shaw adjusted his tie while he waited. Bob Sparkes watched him through the sitting room window as he waited outside for DS Salmond to lock the car door. It gave him a moment to read the middle-aged businessman standing on the other side of the double glazing.
It made slim pickings. Tallish, broadish, brownish hair, and an expensive shirt with one of those stupid, showy knots in his tie. A Windsor knot. Sparkes had refused to have one like that for Sam’s wedding. He hadn’t wanted to wear a deep pink tie in the first place, but had agreed if he could do his usual schoolboy knot. It had caused a bit of a fuss with Eileen, but he had stuck to his guns.
“I’m giving away the bride, not launching a new hedge fund,” he’d said to Eileen. And there had been no more said. Sam hadn’t minded. He didn’t think she had, anyway.
DS Salmond nudged his elbow—she was ready. Sparkes stepped forward, clearing his throat as they knocked. Mike Shaw was expecting them, but he still looked up warily when they were ushered in by the latest Mrs. Shaw. Everyone did when they saw a police officer. Even the innocent.
“Thanks, Mrs. Shaw,” Sparkes said warmly. “Is this your little one?”
Imogen Shaw, her hair unbrushed and exhaustion etched into her face, clutched the baby in her arms even closer. “Yes. Sorry—she needs another feed. I’ll leave you to it.”
Mike Shaw mouthed something to her and she closed the door behind her.
“I remember those first few weeks so well. Are you getting much sleep?” Sparkes said, attempting to settle his interviewee.
Shaw shook his head but his face remained expressionless as the detectives pulled out chairs at the dining table. He took one opposite them.
“What’s this about? Has there been a development?” he asked, leaning on the table. “Surely you could have told me on the phone. I’d like to get back to work. Saturday’s my busiest day and I’m up against it at the moment.”
No hello, then, Sparkes thought.
“Yes and no. This is a bit delicate, Mr. Shaw, but I’ll come straight to the point. Your mother, Mrs. Constance Shaw, rang us this morning to report that two thousand pounds has gone missing from her bank account. She only became aware when she was contacted by her bank, concerned that she had become overdrawn without discussing it with them.”
Mike Shaw opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. His hand went up to his tie and he cleared his throat.
“Sorry, I thought you were here about Rosie.”
“Well, we are, in a manner of speaking,” Sparkes said gently. “Has your mother said anything to you about this?”
“Me? No, no. I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me.”
“No? Perhaps she couldn’t get hold of you at work.”
“Yes, that must be it.”
“Following her phone call, we have confirmed that two thousand pounds was transferred to your daughter Rosie’s account on July the fifteenth, two weeks before she caught a plane to Bangkok.”
“Rosie’s account? Why are you looking at Rosie’s account? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that we are trying to account for the missing money.”
Mr. Shaw half-rose from his chair in his agitation.
“I can’t believe my mother would call the police like this.”
Not disputing that Rosie may have stolen the money, though, Sparkes thought.
“Her granddaughter is missing and all she can worry about is money,” Mike Shaw spat. “Typical. She is the most self-centered woman I’ve ever met.”
“But if Rosie has taken the money, it may have some bearing on her disappearance. She may be afraid of being found out. You do see that?”
“This is ridiculous. I am sure we can clear things up. Perhaps my mother forgot . . .” Shaw blurted.
“Is your mother in the habit of forgetting things, Mr. Shaw?”
The man opposite nodded slowly as if processing the thought. “Well, she’s eighty-two now. Her memory can be a bit dodgy.”
“I see. She struck me as pretty on the ball when I spoke to her,” Salmond said. She’d told her boss about the interrogation she’d undergone at the hands of Constance Shaw. There’d been two phone conversations and the older woman had wanted to know every step the police were going to take.
“So you think your mother may have given Rosie two thousand pounds for her trip? And forgotten?”
“Well, it’s possible . . . I don’t know.”
“But I understood from your wife—sorry, ex-wife—that it was you who had loaned Rosie the money for Thailand. She was very adamant about it.”
Shaw gave him a look. “I bet she was. Jenny is adamant about a lot of things, but we’re not really on speaking terms so I wouldn’t know what she was saying.”
He paused.
Thinking time, Sparkes thought. What has he got to think about?
Shaw cleared his throat. “Look, I didn’t lend Rosie any money. She a
sked, but I said no. I told her she was an adult now and to fund her own holidays. It was a bloody cheek of her to ask anyway. She’s been so nasty to Imogen—my new wife. You should see the letter she wrote to her.”
“I see,” Sparkes said. Moving on . . .
“The thing is that your mother went into the bank and was shown her statements for the past twelve months,” Salmond said.
Shaw tensed, then lowered his head to smooth his trousers, examining the crease intently.
“It appears that regular amounts have been paid into your personal account for the last year. Amounts that your mother claims she wasn’t aware of. She says she stopped receiving paper statements when you put her accounts online.”
“I thought it would be easier for her.”
“She says she doesn’t have a computer, Mr. Shaw, so easier how?”
“I could sort bills out for her, that kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing exactly?” Sparkes said.
Shaw sat back and closed his eyes as if to remember.
He began talking before he opened them. “My mother is a very difficult, demanding woman, Inspector. I was doing a lot of work for her. I simply took what was owed.”
“I understand you are a salesman for a carpet company, Mr. Shaw. What sort of work were you doing for your mother? Providing underlay?”
“No, of course not. I meant I was always paying for things she wanted out of my own pocket. I was always doing things for her.”
“Managing her money?”
“Yes, she asked me to when my father died.”
“She says you suggested it. ‘Insisted on it’ were her words. How are your own bank accounts, Mr. Shaw?”
“What do you mean?”
“It must be expensive having two families . . .”
“You cannot imagine,” he said as he sank his head into his hands. “I’ve got one screaming for university fees and the other nagging about having the house redecorated.”
“It sounds very stressful.”
“You think? We went and bought paint at the weekend. Imogen chose Elephant’s Breath. It was way over our budget, but she wouldn’t listen. She said it was perfect for the baby’s room and she had to have it. I’ve had to pay the mortgage on my credit card this month. And all this with Rosie . . .”
