CHAPTER 29
James returned from yet another stroll with his phone clamped to his ear. “Tell me what you know about this guy Cass,” he said.
“I knew him from school. There was a gang of us.”
“School where?”
“Woodlands School in Gloucester.”
“And Walid?”
“I met Walid after I moved to London. He’d just arrived from Syria. It was my suggestion that he went to stay in Gloucester near Kevin.”
“Is Walid an illegal?”
“No. He was born in UK. His mother was killed in Syria. She was a nurse. He’s just got a British passport.”
“Has Cass changed his name?”
“No idea. He was Cass Siddiqui when I knew him. He lived in Shipley Street. His mother was Pakistani.”
“Siddiqui, huh?”
“Qasim Siddiqui was his real name. We called him Cass.”
“Those photos are of a Turkish guy called Cemil Demir.”
“Then I made a mistake. So did Kevin.”
“Not necessarily,” James said, fumbling for his tobacco pouch and lighter again. “He arrived in Thailand from Kota Bahru on the Malay side of the Thai border a few days ago. The photo with the beard is from the Turkish passport he was using. The one without the beard appeared on Facebook yesterday. Looks like he’d had a shave somewhere because the police say it’s the same man. He’s wanted by police for planting a bomb at a fuel station south of Nakhon Si Thammarat.”
That shocked me. “Here?” I asked. “So close?”
“Coincidence, huh?”
The way he looked at me made me wonder if he thought I was involved. Oh my god, I thought. Peace and tranquillity? Where have they gone? I wasn’t even breathing fresh air but inhaling tobacco smoke. “Cass? Planting a bomb? No. I don’t believe it,” I said.
James stood and nodded his head in some unknown direction. “Come with me.”
“I got to follow you again?”
“Only if you want to.”
So I followed, padding after him like a puppy following its new owner, thinking we were returning to his bike. But no, we passed it and headed further into the town. A shiny gold dome surrounded by long ornate buildings with red-tiled roofs appeared, reflecting the strong sunlight. The noise and crowds increased: buses, motorbikes, and street vendors. Peace and tranquillity disappeared completely. Then James stopped and pointed up at the dome.
“Wat Pra Mahathat something,” he said. “Don’t ask me to pronounce the rest. I’m American. But it’s famous. It’s a tourist attraction. It’s been here for two thousand years. It’s mostly Buddhist, but the city’s history is mixed. I often come here. You should take a look around sometime, but not now. Point is I reckon that second photo of the guy you call Cass—the one without the beard—was taken from over there. He pointed to a 7-Eleven. According to the police, he was seen getting into a tuk-tuk with four Buddhist monks. They say he stayed at a local temple for a night or two. Maybe that’s where he got his shave, but when the police arrived, he was gone.”
I listened, bemused. This was a far cry from the Broadwater area in Tottenham, where I’d been emptying bins a few days ago. Meanwhile, this sweaty long-haired American was casually puffing on another joint of something.
“How the hell do you know this, James?” I asked. “Who are you?”