CHAPTER 55
At midday in London, Colin Asher had emerged from his office. Else and Ritchie watched him go to the window overlooking Edgeware Road and look down. A phone then rang behind him. “That might be Mark,” he said, as if he’d been expecting it.
“In Taiwan?” Ritchie asked.
“I hope not. He flew out of Taipei at 6:00 a.m. Four-hour flight to Bangkok, change to a flight down to Nakhon Si Thammarat, and a hire car north. Twelve hours should be enough.”
Else answered it, “Hi, Mark. You want the boss?”
“Put him on,” Mark Dobson said.
Colin took the phone. “Do I really want to see your face on video?”
“It’s not me you need to see,” Mark replied as the unsteady image then moved to the face of a dark-skinned young man with an unshaven face who immediately moved out of shot. “We’ve got Cass,” he said.
As the image moved again, Else switched image and sound to the computer screen. “He’s sitting right next to me,” Mark went on.
The image then moved to another face—an even darker face of someone looking not too dissimilar to Ritchie. “And this is Kurt,” Mark said.
I smiled, gave a quick wave to the phone, and turned towards Cass, who, I have to admit, l barely recognised. His arms and face were a reddish brown, not the light brown I seemed to remember. He had a week’s worth of stubble, his hair was a tangled mess, and his feet were dirty and bare. He kept scratching a red sore on his shin. His tee shirt and shorts were dirty and stained with sweat, but the worse thing was the smell. Jimmy was bad enough, but Cass was worse.
“Jimmy’s somewhere,” Mark said into the phone. “I got here just in time. We’re now at the back of a police van. The rear door is open, but Cass is handcuffed.”
Mark moved the phone, and I heard him say, “And this is the back of the head of a gentleman who I’m led to believe works for the Thai anti-terrorism police. Jimmy’s just finished flashing his official card around and giving a twenty-minute explanation in broken Thai and even worse American English to try to explain who we are and what’s going on.
“So far, they’ve listened, taken selfies, and filmed us but said very little. They seem to be inclined to trust Jimmy, but so far, not Kurt or me. As for Cass, he’s in such a state he can barely speak. And he can barely walk. Before all this, there was a lot of gunfire by the temple, and at least two guys were shot and carried off. I think a policeman was also shot, which, perversely, might help our argument that Cass is not the guilty one.”
The image moved back to Cass, who was still sitting with his head down, but he looked up at me. I think he was probably pleased to see me, but it was difficult to be sure. I decided to say something to him.
“Listen, man,” I said. “Take it easy. We’ll sort it. Lucky I was here, huh? I’ve not seen a toucan yet, but you’re the next best thing. If they throw you in jail, I’ll offer to join you, OK?”
I think Cass realised it was a joke because he tried to kick me with his bare foot.
Mark then asked Colin Asher if Ritchie was there, and I heard this other voice. “Sure, I’m here.”
“Show yourself, Ritchie. Tell Cass something positive.”
Sitting beside Cass, I then saw Ritchie’s face—a black guy that, for a moment, I thought was Winston, except he was older and his hairstyle was different. But then I’d not seen Winston for a while either.
“Cass?” Ritchie asked. “Can you see me? We’re on the case, man. We’ll sort it. We’ve even got you a new British passport. We’ll get it to you somehow. Tell them everything, Cass. We’re in London, but I’m now going down to see Kevin and Roger and Gordon and a few more of your old friends. Just keep going, OK? We’ll sort it.”
I suppose it was enough because Cass blinked, like his eyes were sore, and nodded.
Cass, handcuffed and lumped at the back of the van with Mark Dobson and me, was struggling with his emotions.
He’d done as Jimmy had said and stayed where he was, hidden in the deep bush on the hillside overlooking the white Buddha. He could see nothing of the temple itself but had heard the police vehicles coming, the shooting, and then a general commotion of shouting and more gunshots. Things had then quietened down, and Cass was wondering what had happened when I phoned him again.
“Cass?” I said, “you still there?”
He didn’t answer, so I went on. “Make your way down towards that big white Buddha, will you? It’s safe. Police are here, but so am I and Jimmy and this other guy, Mark Dobson, who has just arrived. Jimmy has talked to them. They’ve loaded two guys into an ambulance. They looked dead to me because their arms and legs were flopping around like dead dogs. And I think a policeman’s been shot but not killed. Another guy was bundled into a police car.”
I paused to check if Cass was still there. “You still there, man? Talk to me.”
“Yeh,” Cass said.
“Then come down.”
By then, Jimmy, in his baggy orange trousers, was already talking to one of the policemen and flashing a card that said something. I left him to it and turned to check which direction Cass would arrive from.
My first sight of him was as he climbed the wall and almost fell into a pile of sand and builder’s rubble. Mark and I and two policemen went to pick him up, but the police told us to move away. They half-carried, half-dragged him to the van. A sandal fell off his foot, and I saw him look at me, but he was in no state to do or say anything.
But seeing him stung me. What on earth can happen to humans in such a short time?
Cass was the same age as me: nineteen. And all I could do was remember school and playing basketball with him and Winston on that concrete weed-strewn patch of land at the back of Brick Street.
By then, at least four other brown police trucks had arrived. Police were everywhere—most just staring, some on phones, and one with a video camera. One group had gone into the temple. Another group was talking to the monks who were mostly scratching their crew-cut hairstyles.
Mark and I followed Cass and the two police to the van. The rear door was open, and I don’t know what was going through Cass’s mind. But he suddenly slumped to his knees, looked up at me, and for one shocking moment, I wondered if this really was Cass or some other poor guy.
If it wasn’t for his eyes, I don’t think I’d have recognised him. He’d always been so clean and tidy. He would even arrive at school with tie tied tight to his neck, whereas my top shirt buttons would be open and my tie would hang loose, just like I was pretending to be some dumb black actor in a gangster movie.
Now he was thin and dirty and staring like some poor guy waiting to be shot by ISIL. Which, I suppose, is what he was.
He didn’t speak, but he just looked at me as they clipped handcuffs on him like a criminal. Then his other sandal fell off, and I picked it up. What good one shoe was, I don’t know, but it seemed the right thing to do. And what would I then say to him?
“Get up, man. Don’t be such a mugoo. Jesus, man, you ain’t nothing like you used to be. Got some sprawl beard and fancy haircut. And where’d you get them shoes. Sandals ain’t cool man.”
Why I spoke like that, I don’t know, but somehow, I felt it necessary to revert to the way I used to speak when I was fifteen or sixteen.
Jimmy strolled up, then as Cass crouched on the ground in a heap, the two police did something inside the van.
“This ugly guy is Jimmy,” I aid to Cass. “Don’t shake his hand. He’s dirtier than you are. He rolls a good spliff, but he’s piss poor with Chiclets and blimps.”
Jimmy stared down at Cass, and I think he’d have helped him to his feet if the police weren’t back on the scene. He backed off, but he did speak.
“Cass,” he said in his American accent, “good to see you, man. We’ll sort this, but the police need to talk to you. Be patient, man, OK?”
The two other police wandered over—one in a brown uniform, a cap, and ribbons like he was about to declare a military coup and the other in black jeans and tee shirt with something bulky inside a zipped nylon jacket. I much preferred the latter guy, and it was he who spoke to Cass. But first, he pushed his shoulder to make him look up, and Cass raised his head.
“You are Mister Cemil Demir?”
And Cass found his voice. It was weak and a bit rough, but it was definitely Cass’s Park Road accent. “No, sir,” he said. “I am Qasim Siddiqui. I’m British.”