The Suspect

by Fiona Barton

  “Not yet. Anything on your end?”

  Joe rattles off the names of the people he’s spoken to, but it’s all background noise. “They were such lovely girls” seems to be the sum of his efforts, but it allows me to slip back into reporter mode. Just for a minute.

  “Keep in touch with all of them,” I say. “We want to hear anything they’re hearing.”

  “Yes, Kate.”

  “By the way, did you win the face-off?”

  “What?”

  “Terry gave you up. And, Joe.”

  “Yes, Kate?”

  “Daytime telly is for losers.”

  “Yes, Kate.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Reporter

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2014

  I go back to Khao San Road as soon as I hang up, telling myself I need to get some sense of what happened there. I’m scouring the crowd for my son. He’s not here and the faces start to blur as I stare too hard, desperate for the familiar. People stare back and I start showing them the photo of Jake I have on my phone. It’s a picture of him smiling at someone off to the side—maybe me. I can’t remember now. It has been my screen saver for two years and I can’t even recall the occasion. They all smile their sympathy and shake their heads, but I know they’re not really looking—they’re not taking him in. They need to remember his face. I go into a copy shop to get Jake’s photo made into flyers. On the bottom, I have printed his name, my phone number, and “Please Help Me Find Jake.” Like a woman in a story. Then I thread through the throng, handing them out. Kids take them, perhaps thinking it’s a voucher for a free drink or entry to a club. I see them glance down and then stuff them in pockets or throw them down as they walk away. Why would they care?

  I go and sit in the front row of tables at one of the bars, as far away from the loudspeakers as possible, but the disco music dings on my skull like hail.

  I watch as herds of new arrivals parade past, girls in shorts, flashing white thighs and big earrings. They’ve clearly heard a good time is to be had here and their faces show their determination to have some of it. Their screams of laughter echo round the bar fronts, fighting with the music for my ears.

  The boys are skinny kids by comparison, clutching bottles of beer, jostling one another, egging one another on with shoves and winks as the pretty restaurant fluffers pretend to tug down their tiny skirts but hitch them up farther instead.

  Planet Good Time, I think, but a glance round the neighboring tables tells a different story. Blank, exhausted faces, busy anesthetizing themselves with plastic buckets of vodka and Red Bull or outsize bottles of Chang beer. Bored-looking couples are staring intently at their phones, not each other. A lone boy is warily eyeing the massage chairs in the shop opposite. The masseuses with young bodies and old faces are lounging on the wipeable upholstery like lizards waiting to pounce.

  “Later,” that boy is probably thinking. “After a couple more beers. If I don’t get lucky.”

  It all feels a bit tired and cheap. More like Blackpool with good weather, I think.

  “Gin and tonic,” I shout to the hovering bar boy. His face doesn’t register the request, but he returns with the drink and the bill. I show him Jake’s flyer and he shrugs and points behind him. On the posts holding up the awning are taped a dozen photocopied pictures, each with its own heartfelt plea from a friend or parent. I take a big mouthful of my drink, welcoming the bitterness and buzz.

  “On your own?” says a voice from behind.

  When I look round, I see Louise is sitting two tables away.

  “Yes,” I say and turn back to my glass. I can’t face her. The inevitable fake concern, the sly questions.

  She comes over and sits down in the chair beside me. “I know this must be a very difficult time,” she says and I laugh.

  “Bloody hell, Louise, are you really going to try that on me?”

  She shuts up. “Another gin and tonic,” she calls across to the waiter. “Sorry. Old habits and all that . . . How are you doing?”

  “Been better. Look, I really don’t feel like talking, Louise. Why aren’t you having dinner with the rest of the pack?”

  “Don’t fancy it—they’re getting rat-arsed in the hotel bar. Have you eaten?”

  I haven’t, not since I arrived a lifetime ago, and the gin is beginning to make my head spin. But she doesn’t wait for an answer.

  “I’m going to get a bowl of something here,” Louise says. “I’ll order one for you, too. You need to eat. Keep your strength up.”

  She’s doing a me, I think, and almost smile in recognition. Mothering me, taking control. I want to tell her where to shove her bowl of food, but it feels so nice to be looked after like this. Not to have to make decisions. So I let her carry on.

  And I eat the sticky, sweet chicken and rice as if I haven’t had food for days. As I finish, Louise puts down her bowl even though it’s still half-full. Can’t ask questions if you’ve got your mouth full, I think, marking her performance.

  “Have you any idea where Jake might have gone?” she says. “He must be so traumatized by what happened.”

  I don’t reply. I wait her out. But she is doing the same. We sit in silence as she fusses with her napkin, then wets her finger and tries to pick up stray rice grains from the table.

  “What have you written?” I ask, the first to weaken.

  “The girls, the mums, the holiday of a lifetime. The usual. And I’ve written Jake up as the reluctant hero, who risked all to try to save the girls and then slipped away to avoid the limelight.”

  “Right. I hear you got a photo of him . . .”

  “Yeah, the local news agency found it. I think everyone has it. Nice pic but a bit old. I expect he looks a bit different now.”

  “Yes,” I say. But I have no idea. I try to picture him with a beard, or shaven head.

  “When did you last see him?” Louise asks casually, beckoning the waiter to order more drinks.

  “Not for me, thanks,” I say quickly. “I need to go back to the hotel.”

  I dig through my purse to pay but Louise waves it away. “I’ll get this. It’s all on expenses anyway.”

  And she picks up the flyer I’ve pulled out with my wallet. “This is a good idea,” she says. “Mind if I keep it?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Later, in the room, I scroll through the news websites and see my flyer, with the headline “Mother’s Desperate Hunt for Hero Son.” It’s me. I start to dial Louise’s mobile and stop. Everything I say now will be news. I need to say nothing.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Reporter

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20, 2014

  Terry is struggling to say the right thing. He can never get it right, and I’ve often wondered how he ever managed as a reporter on the road.

  “Look, Kate, this is a big story, but I can’t have you filing developments if you are part of it. You do see, don’t you?”

  I do, but I feel a door closing.

  “Well, just for a couple of days, until I sort out Jake.” I try to push back. I make it sound like it’s nothing—like I’m dealing with a child having a tantrum.

  “Yes, but what if things get difficult?” he says.

  “Difficult?” I snap, but we both know what he means.

  “You know how things can get,” Terry says wearily. “I don’t need to tell you.” He doesn’t. Perhaps it’s started already.

  “What’s being said about Jake, then?”

  “Not much and it’s all pretty positive. He’s being portrayed as the survivor who may hold the key to what happened.”

  “Well, that sounds okay,” I say hopefully.

  “I hope you’ve told Steve not to say anything.”

  I haven’t, but I will now. And Freddie.

  “Anyway, you need to concentrate on your f
amily,” he adds. The last nail in the coffin. When the news desk starts talking about your family, you know it’s over.

  “Has this come from the Editor?” I ask. Terry doesn’t answer immediately, but of course it has. I’m being cut adrift in case my son and I damage his paper’s precious reputation.

  “Simon is very concerned about what you must be going through, Kate,” Terry says finally. “He’s got kids, too. He feels you need to focus on Jake. We all do.”

  “So who’s going to cover the story here for us? Don?”

  “I’m sending Joe out.”

  “Right, well, he’ll be pleased to get his first big Foreign. When is he arriving?”

  “He’s on his way. He’ll ring you when he gets in tomorrow. God, it must be tomorrow already there. Go to bed, Kate. Oh, and let me know if there is anything I can do to help. Okay?”

  He’s desperate to get off the phone and end his attempt to feel my pain.

  “Okay,” I say.

  I look at the time on the television display. It’s two a.m. I pick up my notebook and reread my list: hospitals, pharmacies, turtle sanctuaries.

  When I ring home, I get my answerphone announcement and start speaking over myself, telling Steve to pick up.

  “Kate? Sorry about that, love, but I’ve had to start screening calls. All your lot keep ringing to ask about Jake. Is there any news?”

  “No, not yet. I’ve been handing out flyers in the area around the guesthouse.”

  “I should be there with you.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “Let’s see what happens in the next day or so, Steve. I think he’ll turn up when he sees the coverage. And then I’ll bring him home.”

  “God, I hope so. Freddie says he’s getting friend requests from reporters on his Facebook page.”

  “How is he doing? I’ll ring him now.”

  “He’s okay, Katie. A bit confused—like we all are.”

  “I know. Look, I know I don’t need to say it, but don’t talk to the reporters. Even the ones you know. Especially not them.”

  “Why do you think I’m fielding calls? Never mind them; what are the police saying?”

  “Nothing about Jake. Just that foreigners are to blame for the fire.”

  “You sound exhausted. It’s the middle of the night there. You can’t do anything else now. Get some sleep so you can think straight in the morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do it, Kate.”

  I leave a message for Freddie on his phone. “Darling, it’s Mum. No news yet here, but I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. I’m going to bed now. Don’t talk to reporters . . . Love you.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Reporter

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20, 2014

  I’m woken by Joe, ringing from the lobby.

  “Kate, it’s me. I’ve just got here. The taxi driver overcharged me, the bastard. Can you give me a fill on what’s happening?”

  His nervous energy surges down the hotel phone, forcing me upright and making me want to kill him.

  “I’ll come down,” I say as I drag myself out of bed. “Order a lot of coffee.”

  It takes me ten minutes to wash my face, dress, and pull a brush through my hair, and I can see from Joe’s face when I walk in that I look terrible.

  He turns away and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny chrome breakfast buffet. I look ninety.

  “Are you all right, Kate?” Joe says, and I start to crumble.

  “Don’t be nice to me or I’ll cry. And if you think I look bad now, wait until you see that.”

  Joe looks terrified.

  “Don’t worry—I’m fine. Not enough sleep, that’s all.”

  “You’ve lost an earring,” he says.

  “Whatever. Let’s leave my fashion crimes to one side and focus on the story. Have you seen any of the others yet?”

  “Only Mick. He looks worse than you . . .”

  “Thanks.” I take a mouthful of hot coffee and burn my tongue.

  “Where are the girls’ parents?”

  “Probably upstairs in their rooms if they’ve any sense. Avoiding us. Go and get some breakfast, Joe.”

  I sip my coffee and watch him prowling round the buffet, piling his plate with pancakes and flaccid bacon. He mimes, “Do you want anything?” and I shake my head. Can’t think about food yet. I watch the second hand on the dining room clock tick away another minute and I try to make a plan for the day. Now that I’m not a reporter.

  “What are you going to do this morning?” Joe asks as he comes back to the table, as if reading my mind, meaning, “What should I do?”

  I reel off a list of people he needs to ring—Don, the police, Clive Barnes, and the parents—while he piles the food into his mouth, takes notes on his paper napkin, and nods.

  “You need to get alongside Lesley and Jenny—I’ll give them a call when you’ve finished stuffing your face.”

  “Ooooh, that looks good,” Mick says, looming up behind Joe. “Unlike you, Ms. Waters.”

  “Have you looked in a mirror this morning, Mick? I think you win in the walking-dead stakes. How much did you drink last night?”

  “A couple.”

  “Of gallons?”

  “Fuck off. What’s that on your plate, Joe? Looks like a skin graft.”

  “It’s chicken bacon. Tastes like bacon, anyway.”

  “That’ll do. Back in a mo’.”

  I wonder what Mick’s been told by the news desk. More important, he’ll know what the pack is doing. What they’re thinking.

  “Do you really need three fried eggs?” I ask as he returns.

  “Shut up. It’ll do me good. Something needs to.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Bed. Spoke to George from the Telegraph just now. We’ve got a presser at ten here.”

  Joe writes it in his notebook.

  “Finished?” I say. “Come on—let’s go and talk to the families.”

  “Wait for me,” Mick says, folding the last egg into a slice of bread and picking up his camera bag.

  * * *

  • • •

  Lesley is standing in the lobby when we emerge and she lifts her hand to greet me.

  “Hello, how are you doing?” I say. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”

  “No. How about you? Any news about your son?”

  I hold her elbow and guide her to a group of armchairs in an alcove.

  “Lesley, I’m being taken off the story while I sort everything out, but my colleague Joe Jackson is here to take over.”

  We both look over at Joe, who realizes I am talking about him and smiles and waves across the room at Lesley.

  “He only looks about twelve.” Lesley sighs.

  “He’s a good reporter. And a nice lad.”

  “If you say so. I had someone knocking on our door this morning at silly o’clock. I told her where to go.”

  Louise on dawn patrol, no doubt.

  “Malcolm’s upstairs phoning the airline. We want to take the girls home as soon as we can, but there’s a lot of paperwork. I just can’t face it.”

  “I can help you if you like, Lesley,” I say. “Shall we meet after the press conference?”

  Lesley nods, distracted by the arrival of her husband and the Shaws.

  “How did you get on?” Jenny is asking Malcolm.

  “I spoke to a very nice lady at the airport. I’ve got to call her back at eleven.”

  I signal to Joe to come over so I can introduce him to everyone. Mick throws the rest of his breakfast in a bin and shakes everyone’s hand, holding on to Jenny’s a shade longer than necessary. She flushes but doesn’t draw back.“How are you bearing up, Jenny?” Mick asks and squeezes her elbow before letting go.

  Poor woman—she needs
a bit of TLC, I think. I could do with some, too.

  Joe is chatting to Malcolm and Lesley about Bangkok and the crazy traffic, steering clear of the story and putting them at ease. Good boy, I think. You’ll be fine.

  The families have decided to go to the embassy early so they can use the phones there to ring home.

  “My mobile bill is huge already,” Jenny says. “I just can’t afford it. I don’t know how I’m going to pay for all this . . .”

  Malcolm takes her arm as her face starts to collapse and says, “We’ll sort it all out when we get back. Come on, Jenny. The car’s here.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Mother

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20, 2014

  Clive had signed them in at the gatehouse and walked them into the embassy, past the smokers in the courtyard and through the waiting room for those who had lost passports or wanted visas. People looked up as they passed and Lesley felt their eyes on her. They couldn’t know who she was.

  Idle curiosity, my dad would’ve said, if he’d been here. She wished he were. Lesley clutched Malcolm’s hand harder.

  * * *

  • • •

  They were ushered first into what felt like the set of a costume drama. The wooden floor of the Ambassador’s Residence glowed with polish and the sunlight poured through the high windows, filtered through voile curtains.

  “It’s like something out of a film,” Lesley said and immediately felt ridiculous. They were there to talk about the death of their daughters, not to sight-see.

  “Where should we sit?” she added quickly.

  Tea was brought and they sat at a white-clothed table in the Garden Room, watched by a smiling portrait of the Queen and, through a window, a bronze statue of Queen Victoria. Nobody spoke for minutes at a time; the effort to find something to say seemed too great.

  Clive was talking about repatriation plans and legal procedures and Malcolm was chipping in with “I sees” and “Of courses.” The two women sat silently.