CHAPTER 38
As Kevin rang the bell at 18 Lansdowne Road, I was checking out of the Happy Life Resort.
My little friend with the sparkling flip-flops and black fringe waved me off. I was sure I detected a sort of sadness in her eye, but I couldn’t linger because James was waiting outside with the engine running.
He seemed to have a system for tying bags on the back because it only took him a minute to lash my bag to the frame with an elasticated hook. Where his own toothbrush and clean underwear was, I didn’t ask. Maybe he could make things last longer than me.
My first question, spoken after I’d found his ear, was “Where are we going?” It seemed a reasonable one.
“North,” he said. But we’d barely been on the road for five minutes when he pulled in at a fuel station. “Coffee break,” he said.
Why is it that smokers always seem to dehydrate quicker than us non-smokers? Is it because they’re also addicted to caffeine? Sitting outside the coffee shop, we repeated the routine—James sipping coffee and smoking and me drinking water. On this occasion, James sat with phone on the table and headphones on, as if he was expecting a call. I was right because he suddenly stood up and walked away.
***
I must now explain something else because things had been happening that Kevin didn’t know about.
Roger had already told Kevin about Hamish’s police background. That news in itself had made Kevin nervous enough to do as Roger had told him and call Hamish to thank him for fixing his car and for being so understanding.
Hamish, impressed by Kevin’s call, then called Roger, and Roger explained what he’d learned so far—a short history of Park Road, his meeting with Kevin’s mum, and then Greg. “It’s been going on a long time, Hamish. Everyone’s been turning a blind eye.”
For a whole day, Hamish pondered on how he could help. Roger then called again with some more news.
“Kevin’s overheard serious threats against Greg, Hamish. And we now have a new name, Kooky Akram. Point is, I think we’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg. But no one’s likely to do anything on the basis of something Kevin’s overheard, and they’ve already dismissed everything his mum has said as the irrational outpourings of someone with a personality problem.”
“Aye,” Hamish agreed. “I guarantee the police will do nothing, Roger. When I was in the police, we’d ignore stories based on eavesdropping of private conversations, especially in sensitive parts of town. And Kevin is translating from less than perfect Punjabi. Nonstarter, Roger.
“They are also extremely unlikely to risk a rerun of the street riots of a few years back. Answering press and media questions about overreacting would require carefully crafted replies and risk being misunderstood. I can hear the words of the chief constable to senior officers right now: ‘We can’t risk it. Things will be taken out of context. It’ll get out of control just like before.’
“He’d be right, of course. The press would descend like a pack of dogs. They’d love it, Roger. All you’d get would be accusations, confusion, and more questions. And, if you’ve got a local politician looking for opportunities to attack the police, it would become an absolute mess. What’s more, the community would close ranks.
“Deliberately not stirring up certain matters, however extreme, has become the norm. It’s racist. It’s discrimination. Things must be calmed down. Quelled. Hushed up. Brushed under the carpet. Out of sight and out of mind. They’ll want to keep a lid on it. Tread carefully. Creep around on tiptoes. Smile and continue to spread feelings of happiness and tolerance, even when there isn’t any. That’s what the police will do. They can’t win these days.
“Why do you think I took early retirement to watch sheep grazing, Roger? Sheep don’t care. They’re all the same whether they’re black, white, brown, old, or young. They don’t discriminate, get jealous, or suffer from mutual suspicion. They don’t feel they’re getting a bad deal, while all the other sheep are doing so much better. They live together with never a cross word. Trouble nowadays is that someone opened the window and allowed political correctness to fly in and old-fashioned common sense to fly out. Common sense is what solves problems, but it’s become a rare commodity.”
Roger didn’t reply because he understood.
“Keep going as long as you can, Roger,” Hamish advised. “Keep everything to yourselves for a while. No need to involve the law just yet—if ever. When the time comes to involve them, then let’s talk about it first.”
Roger agreed.
“Keep me posted,” Hamish said. “You should retire anyway, Roger. Find yourself a new hobby as a criminal investigator.”
They’d laughed at that until Hamish suggested something else.
“I’ll tell you what, though, Roger. I’ve still got a few useful contacts that aren’t in the police. One of them is a guy called Colin Asher. He’s a private investigator who specialises in serious international commercial crime. I’ll talk to him. If he thinks he can help and calls you back, trust him.”
At midnight, as he slept on his bunk in the truck, Roger’s phone rang. It was Colin Asher. The call lasted over an hour.
“Our immediate priority is getting Cass out of Thailand,” Roger said finally.
“Understood,” Colin Asher had said. “I’ll call one of our local agents.”
***
I, of course, knew nothing of all this as I waited for Jimmy to finish talking to whoever it was. He eventually sauntered back with his earplugs dangling.
“OK,” he said, throwing his latest half-finished joint away and waving his keys. “Let’s go.”
I didn’t move an inch because I just didn’t feel like it.
“Come on, man. Let’s go,” he repeated.
“Where are we going?” I said, slowly draining the last of my water.
“We’ll aim for Surat Thani and wait for information.”
I stayed sitting. “Information from where?”
“London,” he said. “You coming or not?”
I sniffed and remembered what he’d said earlier. “Stay cool, Kurt. Don’t get so agitated. Listen to me. The guy who phoned me is an international crime investigator.”
I sighed. I still had a load of questions I needed answers to, but what else could I do right then? I stood up.
“Good,” he said, lighting yet another stick. “Maybe we’ll camp by the roadside tonight. You OK with that, Kurt? I wouldn’t want to deny you all the comforts of a five-star hotel.”
You see why I disliked his style? I wanted to hit him but resisted the temptation. “I just wish you’d stop smoking those stinking death sticks,” I retorted.
“Not possible, Kurt. Been doing it too long. Take it or leave it.”
“You won’t mind then if I pursue my own habit and mince Chiclets?”
He looked at me through the blue haze. “What the fuck?”
“Chiclets, man. Where you been? I can blow bigger blimps than you’ve ever seen in your life. And you know what, Jimmy James? Just don’t forget I’m sitting behind you on that fancy machine of yours, and if you don’t stop treating me like a kid with nothing between his ears, you’ll find your dirty smoke-filled locks become so stuck up with chewed Chiclets you’ll need a total haircut to get rid of it. How cool would it be to look like Phil Collins?”
He stared. Then he smiled. I didn’t return the smile but remounted the bike as he continued to blow smoke. “Are you coming or not?”