STAN TRIGGERED the electric gate by remote then drove up the impressive U-shaped drive. He parked outside his detached country house, turned off the engine of his Bentley and climbed out. The pollen in the air tickled his nostrils as he stepped over to the house. He entered through the double oak doors and found his wife in the kitchen, staring into space.
He took a seat by her side. “What’s going on?”
She looked over at him but didn’t speak.
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
“It’s …Michael.”
“What’s happened?”
“He’s been arrested.”
“For what?” Stan rose from his stool.
“Beating and raping an underage girl.”
“What! Who told you this?”
“He did.”
“When?”
“Does that really matter?”
“There must be some mistake.”
“He called me from the prison.”
“A Thai prison?”
“Of course a Thai prison. He’s in Thailand.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t just protesting or something? People are always protesting over there.”
“He told me it was a scam.”
“What was a scam?”
“He was sketching prostitutes.”
“What! Why?”
“For his art.”
“And he raped one of them?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what’s he doing getting arrested?”
“I just told you. It was a scam.”
“What was he doing with an underage girl?”
“He was sketching her.”
“His bloody art again. I told him he should have got a proper job.”
“Let’s not get into that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not the time….What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to have to go out there and that’s that.” “Will you go alone?”
“No. I’ll take dad.”
“Do you think he’ll go?”
“Not for me, but he’ll go for Mike.”
“Bring my baby back, Stan, please.”
Stan nodded then turned to leave.
“Where you going?”
“I’m going to see my dad. Can you call him? Tell him about Mike and that I’m coming over.”
“Can’t you tell him from the car?”
“I could, but he likes you.”
Stan turned away from his wife, left the house, climbed into his Bentley, raced down the drive and opened the gate.
Stan hadn’t seen his father in a while, it had been even longer since they’d worked together on a case; but this time was different, this was Michael.
He entered his father’s spacious living room and faced him; back straight, legs in and facing front. The smell of lemon tea lingered in the air and one lonely chocolate biscuit lay on a plate next to a faded Wedgewood teapot.
Nigel was sat back on the sofa, engrossed in his iPad. He had aged well, was still physically and mentally fit with a full head of bushy grey hair and hazel eyes. He was dressed in a pair of casual trousers and a pale blue shirt.
“I just heard,” Nigel said as he placed his iPad down and swiped the last biscuit. “I watched a documentary on the ‘Bangkok Hilton.’ It looks horrendous.”
Doris, Nigel’s wife was perched on the other sofa opposite. She was a small lady with short brown, greying hair wearing a beige skirt over black tights. Her eyes showed concern as they crossed between Stan and Nigel.
“I need your help, Dad.”
“We’ve discussed it,” Doris interrupted.
“And?” Stan asked with eyebrows raised.
“Your father isn’t well enough for a long trip.”
“What’s wrong Dad? Don’t tell me the cancer’s back. I couldn’t handle that today.”
Nigel swallowed the last piece of the biscuit and licked his lower lip.
“Dad?”
“It’s not cancer. It’s a heart condition.”
“What’s wrong with your heart?”
“As long as I take things easy, nothing.”
“A trip to Bangkok wouldn’t be taking it easy,” Doris grumbled.
“What if you came and just sat in the car?”
Nigel looked over at Doris for her approval. She shook her head. “Not this time, Stan. I love Michael but I love your dad too. You’re on your own.”
Stan took out a handbook of Thai phrases and dropped it on the table beside his father.
“What’s that?” Nigel asked.
“It’s a book about the language. I’ve had a look at it but I can’t get my head round it.”
“Won’t you need it?” Doris asked.
“I bought an extra copy for Dad.”
Nigel picked it up and started to skim through the pages. A flight ticket dropped out.
“I took the liberty of booking us a suite at The Landmark Hotel.”
Nigel looked at Doris with puppy eyes. She shook her head and frowned. Stan sighed and left.
Doris waited for the front door to close.
“You’re making the right decision, dear.”
“You made the decision, not me. It doesn’t feel like the right decision.”