by Jo Furniss
“Bonham? Why him?”
“First time I saw him, a picture of him, I recognized him. And yesterday I finally placed it. He came to our house when I was a child. He knew my parents.”
“You remember him from so long ago? You were how old?”
“About ten. Maybe younger. I don’t know the exact date, obviously. But it was him.”
Josh shook his head. “Memory is an unreliable source of information.”
“I remember him. And he acts like he knows me—” Camille stopped. She’d been about to get into the late-night booty call. That part she intended to withhold from her boss.
“Forgive me for asking, but I assume you’re not romantically involved with Mr. Bonham?”
“No.” Even she heard the defensive edge to her honest denial.
“Because that would not be entirely appropriate.”
“He must be fifteen years older than me!”
“That far over the hill? Let me assure you, men of the grand age of forty are not so ancient as to be considered saints. I apologize for the intrusive question, but I do have to clarify the nature of a liaison between an employee and a professional contact.”
Josh folded his hands together on the table. Camille realized she had been told to spill the beans. It sometimes took her a few moments to translate diplomatese.
“While I was getting the paperwork together for the Bonham case,” she said, “I noticed that Ed had been in Singapore at the same time as my parents and, so I thought, working in a similar industry. I asked if he would help me to find them.”
“You’re hoping to find them?”
“I’m always hoping to find them.”
Her honesty flapped around like an injured bird. It startled them both. Camille gave a small shrug as if to say “there it is.”
“And did Bonham know your parents?”
“He looked at their photo and said he didn’t recall their names.”
“Is that a no?”
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself.”
Josh pulled his face into a downward smile and regarded the ceiling for a moment.
“You have a steely streak, Camille, that I underestimated.” He dabbed his lips with a paper napkin even though he’d pushed the runny eggs aside and forgotten about them. “I knew Edward Bonham back in the day. I knew more about him than I wanted to.”
Camille remained perched on her chair, as still as a bird over water, resisting the urge to let off a volley of questions.
“He was involved in some dodgy businesses, and, quite frankly, it would have been my pleasure to see him kicked out of Singapore and out of our hair. Happily, his professional demise came about through natural causes.”
“He told me he went bankrupt.”
“He told you that?”
“But he hasn’t told his wife, apparently.”
“Not surprised. Expensive woman.”
“I knew there was a whiff about him,” she said.
“He appears to be legitimate now—aircraft brokerage is a thriving industry, a lot of money to be made—but I would advise against getting into bed with him, which I mean in a purely euphemistic sense. First your parents and now the dead helper—he has a way of drawing people into his drama. Women seem particularly susceptible to his stage presence.”
She wasn’t about to make any promises to Josh, so she diverted the conversation to float plans for her parents’ yacht. As soon as the documents came through, she would seek matching documents in the relevant countries—the most likely being Malaysia, Thailand, or even Burma.
“Burma?” asked Josh.
“It could be anywhere in Southeast Asia. But those are the places they mentioned when I was a kid. They loved Burma.”
“Burma was a tough patch in the ’90s. International sanctions. It’s a land of opportunity now, but only because it was a no-go zone for so long. Of course, there were tourists who wanted to visit even though tour companies boycotted Burma. It was considered unethical by some, but your parents might have been willing to cash in on that market.”
Camille felt a slow slide inside herself, as though her shadow had stood up of its own accord and started to walk away. It was the part of her that still believed the fanciful explanation she’d concocted for her parents’ activities: a derring-do tale of spies on the South China Sea, which Collin dismissed as childish. The shadow pulled from her side with a final tug and slipped out the door like a chastened girl. Maybe her parents had simply kept their business under the radar to avoid any backlash.
She reached into her bag and drew out her Filofax. She flipped open the pages, soft from time, and extracted the photo from the plastic cover. She laid it on the table and slid it forward with one fingertip.
Josh accepted it in the same way. “Your parents?”
“Patricia and Magnus Kemble. This is the picture I showed Ed. He recognized them, I’m sure he did, but he said he didn’t know their names.”
Josh tapped the image. “Maybe he recognized the place.” He spun the photo around to face her. “That’s the most famous bar in Burma. The Raffles Club in Yangon. It’s always been a popular hangout for diplomats, journalists, and the more intrepid kind of businessman. Nowadays it’s been taken over by tourists, since the country opened up.”
“It’s a coffee shop in Singapore.”
“It does look like a kopitiam with the marble-top tables.” He rapped his knuckles on their own and then pointed to the arched doorway in the picture. “But that’s the RC. I’ve been many times. And see the poster in Burmese script?”
She took the picture from his hand. “I thought that was Tamil.”
“Burmese. And that”—he tapped the doorway again, the shadow of a temple outside—“that’s part of the Shwedagon Paya.”
Even Camille, who had never visited Burma, knew Yangon’s iconic site.
“Last time I saw Edward Bonham was in Yangon.” Josh picked up his runny eggs and broke the yolks.
“What was he doing there? And how come you know the place so well?”
“I did a stint there as part of my training, and I went back and forth quite regularly until they put a communications manager in country. As for Edward Bonham, he said he was a paper trader. Impenetrable business, I couldn’t get to the bottom of it, and I couldn’t work out the connection with Burma. But I spotted him in the FCC once. Bonham was there with a couple. British accents. The three of them drew attention to themselves.”
“He does like a drink.”
“Quite the opposite. Burma was—is—one of those places where the expat crowd is usually male, behaving like they’ve died and gone to Saigon in the ’50s. They drink too much, get leery, pick up a girl, piss in the street, and fly home the next day, leaving trouble behind. So long as the girl isn’t the daughter of an army general, you’re all right. By contrast, Edward Bonham and this couple were sober, composed—tense. They were waiting for something.”
“Are you saying my parents were the couple?”
“As I said, memory is an unreliable source, so I can’t be sure. But I do remember Bonham because I was already aware of him. Suspicious, frankly.”
“Was he a spy?”
The spoon came to rest in the egg cup. “It was a good place for people to disappear. In my experience, a majority of people who disappear want to disappear.”
“Did the UK have spies in Burma?” she pressed.
“I should imagine so, yes. But I’ve told you all I know.” Josh downed his coffee. “We can put Edward Bonham and, judging by this photo, your parents in Yangon. I don’t know what they were doing, but I’m damn sure it wasn’t handing out free pencils to schoolchildren. Nor do I think they were secret agents who got thrown to the wolves.”
She picked up the photo and slid it back into the Filofax. “When did you see Edward Bonham?”
“Must have been 1999. I left Yangon in September of that year—”
“Just before my parents disappeared.”
“Le
aving aside espionage to focus on the facts, this is the salient point: if Edward Bonham says he doesn’t know your parents, I would suggest that Edward Bonham is a liar.”
Chapter 35
Amanda was taking a shortcut through Marks and Spencer to the taxi stand, when she heard a familiar voice: “If I can deliver books to girls in Burma, you’d think you could supply knickers to Singapore.”
She watched her mother at the customer service counter. The assistant hammered at a keyboard as though it might activate a trapdoor. “We have your size available at other stores, ma’am—”
Laura stamped her foot—literally stamped her foot: “But the customer is at this store. Oh, forget it.” She strode off toward the café and sat at a small table. Amanda slid into the seat opposite.
“Mother. Fancy seeing you here.”
“Oh. Amanda.” Laura planted her carpetbag on a spare chair. “I do hope I haven’t upset you.”
“By omitting to tell me you’re in town? And yet we bump into each other anyway, just by chance. It’s almost as though there’s a special connection between mother and daughter.”
“Amanda . . .”
“And you even have time for lunch.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay last time. And I’m sorry I didn’t call this time.”
A waitress offered white menus, held open like doves’ wings. Amanda folded hers onto the table. She couldn’t remember a single occasion when Laura had apologized for anything. “Are you okay, Mother?”
Laura’s blue eyes flicked up. For the first time, Amanda thought she looked old. Her mascaraed lashes protruded like fir trees caught in a landslide. One eye, Amanda noticed, drooped more than the other, introducing a new asymmetry that robbed her mother of beauty more effectively than seventy years had ever managed to do.
Laura looked away to the waitress and ordered a salad and black coffee. Amanda muttered, “Same,” and then said to her mother, “Has something happened?”
“I can’t stay for long, I’m afraid. I’ve an appointment.”
“At the doctor?”
“Neurologist.”
“What for?”
Laura flapped her hand as though the question were a mosquito. “I may have suffered a cerebrovascular accident.”
Amanda glanced at the drooping eye again. “A stroke?”
“Yes.”
“On the boat?”
“We were in port. Near Yangon. I slipped and fell on deck, and they took me to the local doctor, who decided it was a stroke and all hell let loose. The insurance wants me to check it out at one of their authorized clinics, you know what they’re like. There was a flight to Singapore, so I’ll tick their boxes and get back to work tomorrow.”
“I’ll come with you to the neurologist.”
“You’re busy—”
“I’m not.”
“Then why aren’t you busy?” Laura gave the table a swipe. “You’re a grown woman. What do you do with your time?”
Amanda leaned back to allow the waitress to deliver their coffee and fuss with the cups until Laura said, “That’s fine, thank you,” and then, “I said they’re fine.” The girl scurried away. “I worry about you, Amanda.”
“You’ve never worried about me. You outsourced me.”
“I was working. Working mothers aren’t a new phenomenon, whatever the media might suggest. You’re not out of the ordinary. Mothers of my generation weren’t held hostage by their offspring like women are today. But it doesn’t mean you were abandoned. You always had the greatest care, and it was—what do they call it now, “parenting style”?—our parenting style to encourage independence. You were just more resistant to that than most.”
“I see.”
“And you know what they say about being over the age of thirty?”
“What do they say?”
“You have to stop blaming your parents.”
“Let me get this straight: you had a brush with mortality, so you decided to come here and put me right before it’s too late?”
“No, I came here to find out how badly my brain is damaged.”
“It seems quite sharp to me.”
Laura laughed, a fragile tinkling like wineglasses crowded precariously on a tray. She picked up her coffee cup but put it down again without drinking. “Don’t know why they serve it so hot. It’s scalding.”
“Sorry for snapping,” said Amanda.
“And I’m sorry too. I planned to phone you after the appointment—I did—to see if you could meet later. You know I hate fuss.”
“You could let me help you. I know you don’t think I’m capable of much, but at the very least I could arrange a taxi.”
“I think you’re very capable. Your teachers always said you were gifted, when you worked. But capability is a muscle that wastes away if you don’t use it. And I’ve never seen you use it. This world you live in now—all the trappings—it’s . . . making you weak.”
“You sound like Ed. He says I want independence but don’t want responsibility.”
“So he’s more than just a pretty face. How is Edward? In the country?”
“Nope.”
“I see.”
The waitress arrived with two salads. Laura dragged a fork through hers as though checking for booby traps. Amanda speared a baby beetroot. “I’m having problems with Ed. And Josie. It’s all a bit of a nightmare, to be honest.”
“This is all lettuce.” Laura pushed her food away. “I’m probably not the best person to advise. I’m predisposed to think the worst about what men get up to in anonymous hotels.”
“In Ed’s case, you might be surprised.”
“They’re like dogs; they run around chasing their balls. All the panting and slavering—”
Amanda snorted. “There’s nothing wrong with your brain, Mother.”
“That’s what I told the insurance company. What about the girl? Is she still not going to school?”
“She was picked up by the police at a party where a boy had drugs. That got blamed on me—”
“How’s that?”
“I called the police when Josie didn’t come home.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Thank you! It was reasonable. What else was I supposed to do, sit back and do nothing? I know I’ve only been in Josie’s life for three years, but I’ve really tried with her. It’s been tough because she’s hard to fathom, tightly wound somehow, like . . .” Amanda made a swirling motion with her fingertips.
“Lace.”
“Exactly. I’m frightened to start picking for fear of unraveling her altogether.”
“Losing her mother so young must have affected her.”
“So you do listen . . .”
“I do.”
Amanda steepled her hands over her mouth. They were trembling. “I’ve been wondering . . . about the nature of the relationship between Ed and Josie.”
“Ah.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that would affect her self-esteem. And even if she’s lived with it for a long time—kept it hidden—sooner or later cracks would appear.”
“But how can I be sure? No point asking either of them. I won’t get an honest answer.”
“No. If there’s one thing I know from experiencing sexual abuse . . .” Laura made slow jazz hands in reply to Amanda’s shocked face. “It was a long time ago. Let’s just say London had a different cultural landscape in the ’70s. Consent was a form you signed with a false name at the abortion clinic. And I never did that either, before you ask. What I’m saying is, when you’re not shown any respect . . . it changes how you look in the mirror.”
Amanda tried her coffee cup and found her hands steady enough to drink. Then she said, “I wonder what Josie sees?”
“That’s what you need to find out.”
“There’s more, actually. This is going to sound a bit dramatic. But I think Ed is . . .” Amanda tried, but she couldn’t say it. All that she wanted to vocalize—her suspicions—pushe
d and strained like marauders at the gate. Overwhelming. She couldn’t let them in. Nor could she burden Laura, not with her mother’s bottom lip fluttering with another tic of time. And, she thought, how do we come back from this if I’m wrong? How do I face my mother next time she cruises into town? Just say, that time I believed my husband was a killer—misunderstanding. And, good news, I’m pregnant with his baby! Yes, the guy I thought was capable of murder, isn’t that a hoot!
“Unfaithful, I suppose?” Laura said at last.
“Spectacularly so.”
“Oh, darling. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”
“There’s a pattern of . . . women. Of course, I don’t have proof, and if I confront him without evidence, the only one who will lose out is me, because I stay in Singapore by Ed’s grace and favor. And if I leave Josie behind. Alone . . .”
“You’re not a fool, Amanda. And you’ve always been willing to see the good in people. I remember your father walking out once, when I confronted him over one of the girls in the office. And you ran down the street in your nightgown to drag him home.” She planted both elbows on the table. “Trust your instincts. Find the evidence. As I did with your father and the fraud. His fall damaged the whole family, but it was like a sickness; I cut off a limb to save the body.”
“I don’t know how to find proof.”
“Oh, I think you do.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re more resourceful than you give yourself credit for.” Laura signaled for the waitress.
“Why do you say that?”
The girl arrived with the bill in a leather sleeve, and Laura handed over a note and waved away the change. “I have to visit the ladies’ before we walk to the hospital.”
“Why did you say that?”
Laura gathered her carpetbag onto her lap. “I would have given you my engagement ring one day, so I don’t really care that you stole it. But taking my key card for the Guanyin was, quite honestly, a bloody nuisance.” She slid out from the bench and put her hand on Amanda’s shoulder as she brushed past. “Put that energy to good use, Amanda, before it burns you up. Maybe you could call a taxi? I’m not up to the walk in this heat.”
