The Suspect

by Fiona Barton

  “My bet is the dorm,” Salmond said, taking the cap off a bottle of water. “Could have been a sex game that went wrong. Autoerotic asphyxiation? Like that MP—with the satsuma.”

  “Satsuma?”

  “Might have been a clementine.”

  “Right, well, let’s not worry about which small citrus fruit it was. Blimey, Zara, is this jet lag kicking in?”

  Salmond grinned. “A bit.”

  “Who was the last person to see them alive?”

  “The people at the party, according to the Thai police. Except there don’t seem to have been any. The only other people staying at the guesthouse were the two Dutch lads, Jake Waters, and Jamie Lawrence. Lars and Diederik left on the eleventh and Lawrence was in prison on the night of the fire, according to the cops.”

  “We need to go and see him as soon as possible to see what he knows—and to get his prints. Trying to get forensic material out of the Bangkok lot is a waste of time.”

  Sparkes looked at his notes again. “We only have the police’s word that the girls were alive that night. They could have been murdered and hidden days before. Aoife couldn’t give more than a loose guide to when they died because of the uncertainty about the temperature in the cold store. When was Mags’s last e-mail from Alex?”

  Salmond pulled out her phone and scrolled silently. “August the twelfth,” she announced. “The night Alex caught Rosie stealing from her bag.”

  “So they could have died at any time during the seventy-two hours before the fire.”

  “Yup.”

  Sparkes’s phone rang. A local number. “Hello, Detective Inspector Bob Sparkes,” he announced.

  * * *

  • • •

  Two Thai officers—the more senior with faltering English—arrived half an hour later. They smiled broadly during the greetings and led the way into the guesthouse to point out areas they had examined. They had obviously been told they were there to instruct the British officers in how to conduct an investigation.

  “I understand you believe a candle may have started the fire,” Sparkes said with a smile. He was catching on.

  “Why do you think it was a candle that started it? Did a witness say there was one?”

  “The owner,” the officer said. “She said many parties here. People drunk. They light candles. Candle knocked over.” He made to leave, his work done.

  “When did you speak to the owner? I thought she had disappeared,” Sparkes said.

  “Soon after the fire. She was very helpful.”

  “But I understand you have not found any other witnesses.”

  “Just owner. She lost everything in the fire. It was the fault of the foreigners who died.”

  “Except the autopsy in England showed one girl had been murdered. Strangled,” Sparkes insisted, casually blocking the doorway to keep the officers there. “We sent you the report.”

  The two Thais talked between themselves for a moment.

  “The case is closed. We have duties. We must go,” the senior man said.

  “Thank you very much for showing us how you work,” Sparkes said, trying to keep sarcasm at bay. “Could we have a copy of your report? It would be so helpful.”

  “Not possible, sorry.” And they were gone.

  * * *

  • • •

  The team reassembled in the café at the end of the alley.

  “We need to speak to the owner urgently,” Sparkes said. “She was there. Ask the neighbors. They must know where she is. And I’ll ask the embassy to get us in to see Jamie Lawrence.”

  Then we’ll go home.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The Reporter

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 2014

  The decision to come had not been hard, really. I was chasing down every line in this story to find out the truth of what happened, the truth of my son’s part in it, and Jamie Lawrence seemed to be the only person alive who might know. Apart from you, Jake, I tell myself. But you’re not here. And I’ve got to know what I’m protecting you from.

  I explained all this to Steve as soon as I’d heard that Jamie was in prison in Bangkok. He’d taken it all in as he helped himself to chicken dhansak from the foil container that was sitting in a pool of red oil on the table.

  “So why have you got to go? Why can’t you wait for your friend DI Sparkes to see him and report back?” he mumbled.

  “Because I have questions I want to ask him. He may not want to talk to the police.”

  “But he’ll want to talk to you?” Steve arched an eyebrow and drank his beer.

  “I’ll get him onside, Steve. I’ll persuade him.”

  “I’m sure you will, Katie. No one is resistant to your charms, are they?”

  I pushed my plate away. “Don’t get nasty with me. You are exhausted; I get that. So am I, but I have to find out what he knows. You must understand that.”

  Steve didn’t respond. He took another mouthful of curry.

  “Don’t you?” I said, louder. “This boy could be the key to everything.”

  “Actually, Jake is the key to everything. Shouldn’t you be pouring your energies into finding him? This other boy has already been ruled out of the investigation by the police. He wasn’t there. This is just displacement therapy, Katie. An expensive distraction—it’ll cost a fortune for you to go. And you might end up not even getting in to see him.”

  “That’s not fair. I’ve tried everything I can think of to find Jake.” I had. I’d tracked down his friends from school, from university, even the treacherous girlfriend, and spoken calmly while corrosive desperation built in my stomach. I’d rung boys he used to play football with on a Saturday; visited pubs he used to drink in, libraries he’d studied in, cafés, shops he’d used. But nothing. No one had seen or heard from him.

  “Anyway, I’ll get in. I’ve got into harder places than that.”

  A wildlife park after hours to find a chained-up elephant and a Midnight Express–style prison in Bulgaria sprang to mind.

  “And I’ve got some money tucked away.”

  “Our holiday money, you mean.”

  “Whatever. This is important. I’m going.”

  He speared another piece of chicken and chewed on.

  * * *

  • • •

  And here I am. Groundhog Day in Bangkok, watching the same high-rises blur together from the speeding taxi. Don is already on the job for me. I’m having to pay him out of my own pocket, but he is worth his weight in gold. If anyone can help me get into the remand prison, it’s him.

  We meet at the same café at the end of the alley and I automatically look for Ross at the surrounding tables. He’s not there so I turn back to Don and try to concentrate on what he’s telling me.

  “I can get you into Klong Prem prison this afternoon. It didn’t cost much, but you can only have thirty minutes with the prisoner.”

  “Genius, Don. Will you come with me, in case I need an interpreter?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s bloody Kate Waters!” A woman’s voice rises above the hubbub of the café. I swing round in my chair. DS Zara Salmond is sitting two rows back. And not sitting anymore. She’s striding between the tables, a woman on a mission, as the two people with her watch in astonishment.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” DS Salmond calls over customers’ heads, unable to wait until she arrives tableside.

  “Er, hello,” I say. “Just following up a story.”

  “Really? Wait until the boss hears you’re here.”

  I twist round but can’t see Bob Sparkes.

  “Is he here?”

  “You bet. He’s making a call round the corner.”

  I get up quickly. I want to talk to him on my own, not with an audience of nosy tourists and shouty police officers.

  W
e almost bump into each other as I round the corner into the alley. He’s got his phone in his hand and is in another world.

  “Bob,” I say, making him jump. I keep walking, steering him back the way he’s come so we are standing in shadows.

  “Kate? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Your sergeant just shouted the same question at me. I’m here for the story, of course.”

  “What story? I thought you’d handed over to Joe Jackson. You’re supposed to be on compassionate leave.”

  “Well, I like to keep busy. And Joe is doing something else at the moment. How are you doing? How have you got on with the Thai police?”

  “Let’s just say we are doing our own thing. Our team is working the crime scene and trying to track down the owner. The police are now saying she’s a witness.”

  “Really? I might be able to help with that. I’m meeting one of Jake’s friends later. He might know where we can find her.”

  “Right,” he says, looking pained.

  “We could go together, have a quiet chat with him,” I say, slipping back into our normal working relationship.

  “Not really, Kate,” he says, bringing me back to reality. “I appreciate the offer, but we’re looking for your son in connection with a murder inquiry . . .”

  “Sorry, stupid of me.”

  “Anyway, what are you hoping to find here? Jake is in the UK. Shouldn’t you be there for when he turns up?”

  “Christ, you sound like my husband.”

  Sparkes smiles. “He has my every sympathy . . .”

  I burble on; I don’t want him to know about the prison visit. He might try to stop me.

  “This is where whatever happened, happened. I need to find out the truth, Bob, for Jake’s sake. And I can’t sit around, waiting. It’s like an itch that I have to scratch.”

  “I know,” he says. He does. We are cut from the same cloth.

  “I’ve got to get on,” I say. “Time’s cracking on.”

  “Where are you going next?”

  “Going to see a man about a dog,” I say. “How about you?”

  “Same,” he says and winks.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  The Reporter

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 2014

  The queues at Klong Prem prison were long and I chewed at my nails, wondering if we would get in before visiting ended.

  Don’s contact had given him Jamie Lawrence’s full ID and building number and he’d assured me we could just turn up. There were dozens of rules for visitors: no books or magazines with pictures of women (clothed or otherwise), no money, no food items. We could, however, pay for toiletries and food, including, bizarrely, KFC meals, and get them delivered by the prison service.

  “Is that extra punishment?” I tried to joke.

  “The daily menu inside is rice and fish heads,” Don said. “He’ll be grateful for whatever we send in.”

  “I hope he’s not a vegetarian,” I said to Don as I handed over the money for a bucket of fried chicken, toothpaste, and soap.

  “Don’t worry—he can use any of this as prison currency if he doesn’t want it.”

  We moved through the system slowly, showing passports, being searched, filling in forms in echoing halls, and following signs to the Visitors’ Room. Eventually, we sat on a bench and waited to be called.

  * * *

  • • •

  A sudden flood of people into the room signals the end of the previous visit and I ready myself. I know what I want to ask, what I hope he’ll tell me. What I hope he won’t.

  Names are being called and visitors are jumping up and running to the cubicle they’ve been allocated.

  Don suddenly stands. “That’s us,” he says. I haven’t heard my name or anything approximating it, but he grabs my arm and says, “We can’t hang about. We haven’t got long. It’s the booth right at the end.”

  We walk fast, past the others, already perched on our side of the security grille and leaning hard toward their loved ones. The noise is deafening as dozens of voices compete with one another and bounce round the walls.

  There are two high stools and a plastic telephone receiver in our half of the booth. I sit down and peer through two metal grilles—one inches from my face, the other a meter away, across a no-man’s-land, where a figure sits with his phone to his ear. I screw my eyes up to get a better look. “He’s Thai,” I say to Don, and he puts his face against the grille to check.

  I pick up the phone and say, “Jamie?”

  The man says something I don’t understand.

  “It’s not him,” I shout at Don. “Have we got the right booth? Oh God, we’re losing time.”

  He marches over to a guard at the desk behind us and returns. “Right place, wrong prisoner. He was here for the last visit. Our bloke is being brought now.”

  I clean the telephone receiver with a wet wipe, then the grille, as the Thai prisoner is escorted away and our man comes in.

  I sit looking, unable to speak.

  “Pick up the phone,” Don says.

  I do. The figure opposite does the same.

  “Hello, Mum,” he says.

  FIFTY-NINE

  The Reporter

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 2014

  Jake can’t speak either now. We stare at each other.

  Here we are. Sitting across from each other. He is so still it looks like he’s been carved on the top of a tomb. But it’s him.

  “Jake,” I whisper above the angry buzz of voices around me. And his head moves, a tiny flicker.

  He puts one hand up to his face, covering it so that he looks as if he is peering through a crack in a wall. Not quite in the room.

  “I can’t believe you’ve come,” he says.

  Don reaches across to poke me. All he can hear is my end of the non-conversation. “You’ve got his name wrong, you bloody amateur,” he explodes. “It’s Jamie. Now ask a question, for fuck’s sake. We haven’t come here just to look at him.”

  I try to say something but my throat is so constricted I can only squeak.

  Don grabs the phone from me and starts in. “Hello, Jamie. Sorry about that. My friend is a bit jet-lagged. How are you doing? We’re reporters and we’ve come to see you to talk about Mama’s Guesthouse.”

  I make a grab for the phone, startling poor Don into letting go.

  “Jake,” I say. “What are you doing in here?”

  Don’s face is a picture.

  “It’s my son,” I tell him. “It’s Jake.”

  * * *

  • • •

  My boy and I talk slowly, feeling our way through the minefield of questions that need answering. I clutch the phone, as I have done before, thousands of miles away, to hear every word. Don sits with his head next to mine so he can hear as well, making notes and occasionally interrupting with a follow-up question.

  Jake tells us that his passport was stolen by Jamie and replaced with his own. He doesn’t know why. He realized only when he was arrested in a bar near the guesthouse. The police searched his backpack and found Jamie’s passport and a small bag of cannabis.

  “It was a setup, Mum. Someone had told the police where to find me. They came straight to my table. They planted the drugs on me. I didn’t understand what they were saying; they were shouting things and they looked at my documents and just assumed I was Jamie Lawrence. I didn’t tell them my real name because I thought I could sort it out and no one would ever need to know I’d been arrested.”

  Us, he means. He didn’t want us to know. His judgmental family.

  “Has there been a hearing?” Don asks.

  “No, I’m on remand.”

  “Why didn’t you get a message to us, Jake?” I say.

  He sighs into the phone. “I’m sorry, Mum. I was going to. But . . .”
>
  “You see, you told us you were in Phuket, saving wildlife or something. We haven’t really known where you were for two years . . .”

  “Mum,” he says. And I stop.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrogate you.” That is for later, I think. “It’s just been such a shock, finding you here.”

  We are back at the beginning.

  “So, why did you come, then, Mum? What did you want to ask Jamie about?”

  “The fire at the guesthouse,” I say. He jerks his head up.

  “What fire? When?”

  “The night after you were arrested. Didn’t you know?”

  He shakes his head. “None of the guards speak English. I don’t hear any news in here.”

  “Two girls staying there were killed.”

  “Two?” he shouts, his hand going back up to his face. “Oh God! Alex?”

  Why isn’t he mentioning Rosie?

  Don looks at me. He knows there’s something off about Jake’s reaction, too. I shake my head and mouth “shock” at him.

  “I know it must be distressing, love,” I say, ramming the explanation home—for my own sake as much as Don’s. “The police are investigating—here and at home. They are saying Alex was murdered, Jake. She was strangled before the place was set on fire.”

  His face has collapsed and he is crying. I put my hand to the grille—it’s as close as I can get to touching him.

  “Don’t cry, angel,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve said those words since he was a toddler, and I start to cry, too.

  “Who do you think killed her, Jake?” Don asks. “Was anyone being weird around her? Paying her too much attention?”

  My son tries to steady his breathing. “We joked that Jamie was Alex’s stalker,” he says, his voice raspy and flat as if all the life has been knocked out of him. “He was trying to get her to go to Ko Phi Phi with him after Rosie . . .”

  He stops.

  “After Rosie what?” I say.