The Suspect - Softcover

FIONA BARTON is the New York Times bestselling author of The Widow and The Child. She has trained and worked with journalists all over the world. Previously, she was a senior writer at the Daily Mail, news editor at The Daily Telegraph, and chief reporter at The Mail on Sunday, where she won Reporter of the Year at the British Press Awards. Born in Cambridge, England, she currently lives in southwest France and England.

The Reporter
 
SUNDAY, JULY 27, 2014

 
The call comes at three a.m. The jagged ring of the bedside telephone tearing a hole in our sleep.

I reach out a hand to silence it. “Hello,” I whisper.

Static whispers back to me. I press the phone harder to my ear. “Who is this?”

I feel Steve roll over to face me, but he doesn’t speak. The hissing static fades and I hear a voice.

“Hello. Hello,” it says, searching for me.

I pull myself up and switch on the light. Steve groans and rubs his eyes.

“Kate? What’s going on?” he says. “Who is this?” I repeat. But I know. “Jake?”

“Mum,” the voice says, the word distorted by distance—or drink, perhaps, I think uncharitably.

“Sorry I missed your birthday,” it says. The line fizzes again and he’s gone.

I look at Steve.

“Was it him?” he asks.

I nod. “He’s sorry he missed my birthday . . .”

It’s the first time in seven months that he’s phoned. There’ve been three e-mails, but our eldest son told us early on that he wouldn’t be contactable by phone. Said he was freeing himself of all the stress that constant calls would bring. He’d stay in touch with us.

When he last rang, it was Christmas morning. We’d hoped he would be there with us, pulling crackers and making his lethal mulled wine. We’d suggested and then pleaded by e-mail, even buying a plane ticket when he seemed to weaken. But Jake had stayed away, managing only a ten-minute call on the day. Steve had answered the phone and spoken to him first while I hovered beside him; then he’d asked to speak to his little brother, Freddie, and finally to his mother.

I’d hugged the phone, as if I could feel the heft and warmth of him, and tried to listen, not talk. But he’d remained distant as the seconds counted down in a phone booth somewhere and I’d found myself turning inquisitor.

“So, where are you now, love?” “Here.” He’d laughed.

“Still in Phuket?” “Yes, yes.”

“And are you working?”

“Yeah, sure. Doing this and that.” “But what about money?”

“I’m managing, Mum. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“Well, as long as you are happy,” I’d heard myself say. The coward’s way out.

“Yes, I am.”

After I’d put the phone down, Freddie had put a glass of prosecco in my hand and kissed my cheek.

“Come on, Mum. He’s fine. Having a brilliant time lying around in the sun while we’re sitting here in the slush and rain.”

But I’d known deep down he wasn’t fine. His voice had become wary. And that nervy laugh. He didn’t sound like my Jake anymore.