The Thailand Job

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 41,657
Rating: M / R
Summary: What is a man to do when a job becomes more than just a job?
Disclaimer: Not my circus, not my monkeys.
Notes: A 'what if' scenario: While other threads remain, Mark and Bridget's history together does not. And if Bridget still went to Thailand for The Smooth Guide…

Chapter 1: The Best Man for the Job

Friday, 17 April

"Sir, you have a visitor."

The PA's voice boomed out from the intercom on his desk, startling Mark Darcy from his thoughts and the brief he was in the middle of writing. He furrowed his brow, glancing to his diary. "I don't have any appointments this late in the day."

"I know," she said. "The gentleman's quite insistent, though."

Mark exhaled roughly. "Fine. Send him in."

He glanced down as he smoothed down then buttoned his jacket, rising from his chair to greet the visitor. When he glanced up again, he was wholly surprised. "Cleaver. Shall I call security, or will you be seeing yourself out unassisted?"

It was indeed his former Cambridge mate, Daniel Cleaver, the man who had caused his marriage to fall fatally apart after only two weeks by sleeping with the new Mrs Darcy. "Ceasefire, Darce," Cleaver said, holding his hands up as if in surrender. "This is a matter of life and death."

"A bit melodramatic, even for you," Mark said.

"I am deadly serious," he said. "The fate of an innocent girl hangs in the balance."

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Mark reached for the telephone.

"There is a girl—pardon, woman—sitting in a Thai prison, unjustly accused of drug smuggling," Cleaver said in a voice so serious Mark froze in place. "I am not being melodramatic. Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do is come here this morning. I know you'd just as soon punch me as look at me, but she shouldn't suffer for my pride and my past mistakes… and I know you're the best."

Hearing this stunned Mark further. Daniel Cleaver had always been a selfish man. He must have been very invested, or cared a great deal, to have come to Mark despite their past. Then he frowned. "Is this about trying to get this woman into bed?"

"Fuck's sake, Darce, no," he said. He then added, "She was my girlfriend once. I fucked up and she dumped me." He held up a finger, pointing at Mark. "But this is not about trying win her back, or trying to get her back into bed. I consider her a friend now, and I can't bear to think of her in prison for a decade or more. Or even worse."

Mark took in a deep breath to calm himself. Surely it wouldn't hurt to listen to what had happened. He sat down again, then picked up a pen. "Tell me what happened," he said. "Start from the beginning. Leave nothing out."

"I wasn't there," he said, "so what I can tell you is second-hand. But I'm sure the person who told this to me would be happy to speak to you directly. As I understand it, Tess—she's one of the line producers for the show—met someone with whom she had a little fling."

Mark interrupted. "You said 'the show'. Explain."

"The Smooth Guide. It's a travel show that I do. My co-presenter is Bridget, who is now in prison."

"Even though she's your ex."

"We worked through it, and are now friends, as I've said," Daniel said. "To return to the story. Tess met this Jed fellow, a dashing world traveller-type, very suave and sophisticated, very charming. I think you know where this is going."

"Enlighten me," Mark said, as he continued to write; he couldn't help think, Sounds like you a bit, Cleaver.

"He gave her a statue as a token," said Daniel, "and took her phone number in London. Said he would contact her once he, too, was back in Old Blighty. But Tess had no room in her bag for the statue—a god-awful snake thing that looked like an ashtray—and Bridget did, so she offered to take the statue home. You can guess what's in the snake. The drugs, which were found by the drug-sniffing dogs."

"And you witnessed that, too."

"Yes. Well, no. I mean, I saw them pull her out of the line. I assumed that since she's always late, that she had forgotten something at the check in. I didn't see the actual moment when the dogs alerted airport security. But then she didn't make the flight. We were supposed to sit together in first class."

Mark finished his final note, penning the final full stop with a firm dot. "I have to say," Mark said, "that this is unbelievable."

"In this day and age? It really is."

"You misunderstand," he said. "I mean it's literally unbelievable. As in, I don't believe a word of this story."

"I'm not lying," Daniel said indignantly.

"I didn't say you were. It could easily be Tess who's lying to you. Maybe she and Bridget—" As he said the second name, he glanced to his notes to ensure he was saying the right one. "—were working together to do a little drug smuggling, and now Tess is trying desperately to distance herself. Maybe there's no Jed at all."

"I take the point," said Daniel. "But I did see them together."

"Tess and Bridget?"

"No," said Daniel. "Tess and Jed."

"Maybe he didn't give her the snake at all."

"He did."

"The point I'm trying to make," said Mark, setting the pen down, "is that in my experience, people caught attempting to smuggle drugs out of a country know exactly what they're doing. Maybe Tess was trying to make a little extra money. Maybe Bridget was."

"We don't pay that poorly," Daniel quipped. "Darcy, I know Bridget pretty well. It's not in her nature to do what she's accused of having done. Maybe she was setup by Tess, but I doubt that. I do know that it is a setup. Probably by Jed. But it's impossible that she's a willing drug mule."

Mark read back over his notes as he considered the story again. He doubted that Cleaver was doing this for altruistic reasons, despite the protestations. She must've been really good in bed, he mused cynically. But something about this inclined him to take the case—if for no other reason, to prove his former friend wrong.

"All right," said Mark at last. "I'll do it." He glanced up, saw the look of relief. "I'd like to believe your story is the truth, that she's an innocent dupe in this whole thing, but knowing what I know historically about these cases… I can't assume anything."

"Investigate all you like," Daniel said. "You'll see it is the truth." Daniel had always had amazing levels of bravado and self-confidence, but this was a new level, even for him.

"We shall see," Mark said diplomatically. "At the very least, I will try to get her back to Britain to serve out a sentence here."

"I've more confidence in you than that." Daniel smiled; it seemed genuine. "Thank you for taking this on."

Mark nodded curtly.

"I know you don't work for free," Daniel said. "You'll bill me."

"Yes," he said. "If you have Tess's contact information, I'll take that."

"I'll put her in touch with you," he said.

"Also," Mark continued, "if you could give me one more thing…"

"What's that?"

"All I know about this woman is that her name is Bridget. I'll need a bit more than that."

"Ah, yes. Bridget Jones," said Daniel. "I understand she originally hails from Northamptonshire. Isn't that where you're from?"

"It's a big place," said Mark, though he couldn't help feeling the name was familiar. "I'm sure I'll be in touch."

With that, Daniel nodded his head in acknowledgement, then left Mark to ponder where to begin. Speaking to Tess was at the top of his list; he hoped the conversation with Tess would spur additional information, and questions to ask. It was nearing the end of the day, though, so he packed up his attaché and prepared to leave for the evening.

As he left his office, he realised his PA, Rebecca, was still there. "Sorry about before," she said pre-emptively. "He was very insistent."

"Think nothing of it," Mark said. "I'm through for the day—hope you're going home soon, too."

She smiled, then nodded. "Just shutting things down."

"Good," he said. "See you on Monday. Have a good evening."

"You too," she said. "Try not to do any work tonight."

Mark chuckled. "I'll do my best."

…

As he made his way home, crawling through the traffic-laden streets of London, Mark found himself plotting his plan of attack on this latest case. He was familiar with a few other high profile cases of UK citizens who found themselves in trouble with the law in southeast Asia. It was probably a good thing that he didn't yet have Tess's contact information, because he might have been tempted to start making phone calls that evening. Doing so would risk the wrath of his faithful PA, he thought with a chuckle.

Upon his arrival home, he could hear his telephone ringing. He managed to reach the phone apparently just in time. It was his mother, Elaine.

"Mark, I was just about to put the phone down," she said. "I'm glad I caught you. I've just heard the most terrible news."

His thoughts raced: his father? His aunt? Before he could even ask, she continued:

"Poor Pam! Her daughter's been jailed in Thailand!"

A strange sense of déjà vu came over him. "Remind me who Pam is, again?"

"Come now, Mark, you remember Pam," she said. "They used to visit when we lived in Buckinghamshire. Pam and Colin Jones, and their daughter Bridget, who would run around the lawn with no clothes on."

Bridget Jones. How small the world seemed at times. At his mother's prompt, he suddenly did remember a very specific birthday party, of a wee blonde girl gorging on chocolate cake and sneaking glugs from a bottle of wine… "You're going to be astonished at the coincidence," Mark said, "but I've just been retained to look into her case."

Elaine did not reply immediately, so long that Mark thought the call had dropped, but then she spoke. "I am, indeed, astonished. I'll have to let Pam know at once—she and Colin will be so happy to hear." After a pause, Elaine then asked, "Wait. Retained by whom?"

Mark didn't want to go into all of it—Bridget's ex, who also happened to be the man who slept with Mark's own wife after the wedding—so he explained only, "Her colleague, who happened to witness Bridget get pulled out of the boarding line by security when the drug-sniffing dogs alerted on her bag."

Elaine was silent again for a moment. "Oh dear," she said. "It sounds like you have your work cut out for you."

"I've only just begun," he said, "but I tend to agree with that assessment. I'll start in earnest tomorrow."

"I was going to suggest not starting tonight, rather to have some supper and a good night's sleep. Start fresh in the morning."

With that they said their goodbyes, and Mark put down the phone. As he prepared his supper, poured himself a glass of wine, his mind wandered back to his new case. He knew next to nothing about the woman for whom he'd agreed to fight; for all he knew, she was a party girl, a willing user of Class A narcotics, and could have been a willing participant. He had a sudden recollection from his youth, a blonde girl of four gleefully swigging out of a wine bottle at his birthday party. Could that have been the same girl that had grown into the woman sitting half a world away in a Thai prison for drug smuggling? He wondered exactly what he'd gotten himself into.

He'd made no evening plans aside from reading a bit before bed, and when he closed the book and switched off the light, he expected that he would fall immediately to sleep. However, this was not to be, as his mind anxiously turned over possibilities for this new case, all of which could not be narrowed down until he knew more about his new client.

If she worked in television, he reasoned, maybe some of her work was online….

With this he threw back the bed sheets, sat up then turned the light on again. Rebecca, forgive me, he thought with a smile, as he slipped down to his home office, to where his laptop resided still in his attaché. He pulled it out and fired it up, bringing up the web browser and starting in on searching. The news bureaus hadn't actually picked up on the Thailand story, and Mark didn't know if this was a help or a hindrance.

Bridget Jones

Bridget Jones television

Bridget Jo

He stopped, then turned to his notes from his meeting with Daniel, scanning for the name of the show they had been putting together. Ah, he thought. There it is.

Bridget Jones television Daniel Cleaver Smooth Guide

This brought up a veritable treasure trove of video clips from a prior episode that had apparently aired fairly recently. It had taken place in Cologne; he clicked on the first video link based on the number of hits it had gotten.

"We're in Cologne, a beautiful city," Daniel said, walking down a rustic-looking cobbled street beside a river; he was dressed as something akin to a devil, "that's about ready to put on one hell of party."

Next came a woman's voice, just as a blonde woman fell into step beside him. Bridget. She was dressed in what was clearly a costume of some variety, a harlequinesque diamond-patterned top and a flared skirt propped up by layers of light crinoline. "It's a party—a carnival, to be exact—for which they are renowned," she said. "We are on our way there now, to be launched at precisely eleven past eleven, today, the eleventh of November."

"Fond of their elevenses, clearly."

"Rather fishy smell, though," she said, though, wrinkling her nose.

"It's the Rhine," said Daniel, gesturing with his thumb towards the water. "What do you expect from a river?"

"Something a bit, oh, I don't know… different for a city called Cologne."

The clip ended, and despite himself, Mark chuckled. Her comment was unexpected, clever in the guise of ingenuousness.

Mark clicked on the next link down, which had apparently was a scene from a show they'd done in Paris. It was clearly night-time, in the centre of a narrow street lined with the soft glow of neon shop signs. He was in a pea coat and scarf, and she, in a flared tailored coat with a small pillbox-style hat perched on her head.

"Paris," said Daniel, "the city of light."

"The city of love," said Bridget; the way she said it sounded like a correction. "You think you know all there is to know about the world's most romantic city? I think you'll find you don't."

"Most romantic?" Daniel scoffed. "I beg to differ. Have you forgotten about that spicy weekend in Prague already?"

Bridget looked squarely at the camera with a smirk. "And this is why we are no longer an item."

"I'm wounded," he said, clearly teasing her in return. "I even took my socks off."

"The height of romance," she said drolly. "But here, in Paris, you will find the actual height of romance… and you can even keep on your socks."

With that the clip was over. Mark wasn't sure if he felt more enlightened, or more confused than ever. Their interaction was affectionate; their chemistry, undeniable; it was clear from just viewing these clips that they had in fact worked out whatever it was that had split them apart. Either that, he thought, or they're magnificent actors.

And there was Bridget herself. It was obvious to him, from her features, particularly her eyes, that the young wine-swigging girl from his recollection had grown up into the woman in these clips. She had certainly blossomed attractively, though he admitted to himself that she was nothing like the woman Daniel usually went for; she was self-effacing and sharp-witted, blonde and buxom. Case in point, Mark thought; my ex-wife.

Amongst the clips of Bridget from The Smooth Guide were outliers from another show, Sit Up Britain. He furrowed his brow and clicked on one of them, which had the topic of fox hunting.

He never expected to nearly double over with laughter. What was probably supposed to have been an anti-fox-hunting spot (given the well-known left-leaning bent of the show) became an aristocrat going on a pro-fox-hunting diatribe while she tried in vain to gain control of the horse upon which she had mounted. It spurred a memory of once seeing a segment of a female presenter going down a fireman's pole and flashing her pants to the camera; a few more clicks revealed to him that this, too, had been Bridget's doing.

He looked further through the search results to some items that had a lower number of hits; his suspicion that they were more serious segments (and not unintentionally hilarious) was correct. He watched one or two more or less straight interviews, very short in length, but it was quite clear to him what she thought about the subject of each respective interview: the man she thought was an idiot; the woman she clearly admired. For her coverage of the most recent Red Nose Day, her passion for the subject was abundant.

He sat back in his chair, pondering what he'd found. He certainly knew a little more about her, and what he learned he found he liked, but what he knew was still something of an enigma. What a Thai prison might do to a woman like her did not bear thinking. As he yawned he realised he should try to get to sleep, after all.

When he did drift to sleep his mind churned up all sorts of mixed images from everything he'd watched that night: horses and foxes and fire poles in a three ring circus, and Bridget in her Parisian coat and hat as the ring-mistress. She had perfect control of the chaos about her, and, much like she had with the man from the clip, was looking at Mark like he was an idiot.

Saturday, 18 April

Mark awoke the next morning to the sound of his telephone ringing; specifically, his mobile. Blearily, he focused his eyes on the bedside, reaching to answer it.

"Mark Darcy," he said, then cleared his throat.

"Sorry to bother you at home," said a familiar voice. Daniel Cleaver. "At least I presume you're at home, but… anyway. I have that information for you. Tess's telephone number."

Mark sat up, looking for something to write on and with. He usually kept a pad and a pen on the nightstand but the pen had gone absent. He opened the drawer and found it. "Sorry," he said. "Go ahead."

After he jotted the number down, he thanked Cleaver, then asked, "How did you get this number?"

"Swiped a business card from your desk," he said. "You really ought to have a bowl of sweets, you know."

"Thank you for your feedback on the contents of my desk, Cleaver," he said curtly. "I'll be in contact with any progress."

Cleaver chuckled slightly. "Of course you're working on Saturday."

Ordinarily he wouldn't have been working, but he felt like he had some catching up to do with regard to this case, especially as it seemed increasingly likely that he'd need to book a flight to Bangkok very soon. "Goodbye," he said, then put the phone down.

It was only then that he glanced at the time, and it surprised him that it was nearly half nine. He did not usually lie in so late, but then again, he didn't usually stay up quite so long watching video clips online. He swung his legs around to put his feet on the floor.

Time to get to work.

…

The call to Tess Brown was pleasant and brief; within thirty seconds of engaging her in conversation, he realised he really wanted to speak with her in person. He invited her to meet him for lunch at Pont de la Tour.

This suggestion left her apparently nonplussed. When she spoke he knew why. "Isn't it hard to get a table there on short notice?"

"Usually," he said, then realised it seemed a bit of a brag. "They are very good about fitting me in as the need arises."

"Oh," she said. "Well, yes, that'd be very kind. Thank you."

He arranged for half noon with her, called the restaurant to confirm, and then proceeded to make some coffee and have something light to eat to tide him over before a quick shower, then grooming and dressing. As he got himself ready, he wondered what she looked like, regretted not asking so he would know who to look for to meet. Then he laughed. It was a bit like a blind date, in a way.

He was a few minutes early; she arrived just a few minutes late. When she did arrive, the maître d' brought her directly over to the table. He rose again, greeted her, and introduced himself with an outstretched hand and smile.

"Thank you for meeting me on such short notice," he said, as they took their seats again.

She smiled somewhat nervously; she was plain-featured with large brown eyes and horn-rimmed glasses. Her wavy brown hair came just to her shoulders. "It's a pleasure," she said. "I just want to do whatever I can to help. I feel awful for what's happened."

Once they had ordered lunch and drinks, he brought out a small pad on which to take notes. "So, if you don't mind starting from the beginning," he said, trailing off to invite her to begin speaking.

"Of course not," she said. "Well. For our flight to Thailand, I found myself seated across the aisle from a very handsome gent. He was very friendly and made every effort to strike up a conversation. Usually I'm content with sitting back and reading a book, but…" Her skin flooded with a blush. "…well, Mr Darcy, to be perfectly honest, I felt a bit flattered. Usually the pretty girls get all of the attention, and here was this world traveller switching seats to sit beside me, buying me cocktails, taking my contact info in Bangkok. He had some fantastic stories to tell about his travels. It was quite exhilarating."

As she continued to describe what was essentially a seduction, Mark jotted down his notes, reassessing his original thoughts from the story as Cleaver had told it. Tess seemed a very modest girl; he could easily see Jed targeting her because of her obvious insecurities. Maybe that made him cynical, but her demeanour, her lack of self-confidence, lent credence to Daniel's account.

Everything else that she told him lined up with what Daniel had said. Lunch arrived just as she described Jed's gift of the snake bowl to her. She explained with another deep blush that he had given it to her the morning before her departure back to London, saying (without directly saying) that this had occurred after they had slept together, possibly for the first and last time.

He had her on the hook, thought Mark as he jotted down notes between having bites of his lunch. With every word she spoke, he believed the story more and more. Unless Daniel was in on it too, the stories would not have lined up nearly so well.

But he still had possibilities to eliminate.

"So tell me a little bit about your working relationship with the hosts of the show," he began. "Specifically, with Ms Jones."

He watched for a response, and it was about what he expected—warmth, fondness—though her suddenly erupting into tears was a surprise. "Sorry," she said, picking up her table napkin. Hastily, feeling embarrassed at having made her cry in public, he reached for his pocket square and offered it to her; she accepted it and daubed under her eyes. "I just… I like her so much. She's such a kind person, and… she's paying for my stupid mistake."

"So you thought of her as a friend?"

"Wouldn't say we're friends, really," she said, without any trace of hardness or bitterness. "We don't go out for drinks on the weekend or anything like that, but we're friendly. We have a great working relationship."

"Okay, that's good to know," he said. "So how did the item in question come to be in her possession?"

"That hideous snake bowl? Oh, God, I wish I had never laid eyes on it, but it was such a quirky and unusual gift and souvenir…." Whether she meant a souvenir of Thailand or of her fling was not clear. "I had totally over-packed and was resigned to leaving it behind, but as I came out of my room with my suitcase in one hand, the bowl in the other, and probably a grim look on my face, I almost walked straight into Bridget. She asked me what was wrong." Tess laughed lightly. "Actually, she asked me jokingly who had died. That's when I told her about having to abandon the bowl. 'Oh no!' she said to me. 'You've got to bring it home. Give it to me—I didn't get half as many souvenirs as I meant to, so I've got lots of room in my bag.'"

"Ah," he said. He would of course have to corroborate with Bridget herself, but he found it interesting that the idea was not Tess's but her own. He asked her then to confirm dates of arrival and departure, and also asked if she could provide the flight information. She said that she could do all of that by consulting the calendar on her phone.

"Thanks," he said. "Now about Jed himself. What can you tell me about him? What did he look like; how tall was he?" She was still looking down at her phone, so he added, "I'm sorry if this makes you feel uncomfortable…"

"Oh, no, that's not it," she said. "I was looking for… ah, here it is." She turned her phone around and displayed an image on her screen. Pictured was a tall, handsome man with a hat, standing on the beach, looking at a point in the distance over the water; his face was in three-quarters profile. "He didn't want me taking his picture—I suppose in hindsight it was because he's a criminal—so I snuck taking this. I just wanted something…" She blushed again. "Something nice to look at. Maybe some proof our little thing happened."

"I understand," he said. "Would you mind sending me a copy of that image? Not sure facial recognition would be able to read this, but it's certainly worth a shot." At her confused look, he added, "Facial recognition works best when the photo is a full portrait, and the head's not turned in any way."

"Ah," she said.

He handed her a business card. "You can use the email address on there for the photo," he said. "If anything else comes to mind, feel free to contact me."

It seemed clear to him that the interview and lunch was over. He paid for the meal and they prepared to go. "It was very nice meeting you," Tess said. "I have a good feeling you'll get results for Bridget."

"That's very kind of you to say so," Mark said. "I hope you're right. I'll certainly do my very best."

His phone alerted an incoming email as he drove away from the restaurant; a glance told him it was the photo from Tess. Instead of heading back to his office, he swung towards Scotland Yard. He needed to pay an old friend a visit; he punched in the number to warn of his arrival.

"Gregg here," barked out the gruff voice.

"Gregg, it's Darcy," Mark said. "Wanted to make sure you had time for a little inquiry I need to make."

"Of course," he said. "If you don't mind bringing some coffee, though… I'm sick of the swill in here."

"Don't mind at all."

After a quick stop by for a couple of black, cold-brewed house coffees, he phoned ahead to let Detective Inspector Gregg know that he'd arrived. The silver-haired, dark eyed Gregg was there to meet him at the door, and together they walked up to his office.

"Like night and day," Gregg said, then took a long sip of the coffee. "So to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I've been retained to help an Englishwoman get out of prison in Thailand."

"Ah, yes, think I read something about that in the papers," Gregg said, taking the seat behind his desk. "How did you get involved?"

Mark considered his words briefly before explaining, "Daniel Cleaver came to me in a direct appeal."

A couple of pennies seemed to drop in Gregg's mind; he knew that Cleaver was the reason Mark was no longer a married man. "Cleaver. The same man who is the co-presenter on the show."

"One and the same."

"He must have been desperate, risking a punch in the face," he said, somewhat in jest. "Claiming innocence, as usual?" he asked; Mark knew instinctively he didn't mean Cleaver.

"She is," Mark said. "Just had lunch with the woman who said it was her fault it happened."

Gregg's brows shot up. "Oh, now this I've gotta hear."

So Mark gave him a much-simplified version of the story he'd heard so far. "When I asked Ms Brown to describe this Jed character for me, she did one better; she'd taken a photo." Mark drew out his mobile. "Unfortunately, she had to take it surreptitiously, since he disliked being photographed." He tapped around on the screen until the photo was up, then handed it to Gregg.

"Shame it's not straight-on," he said as he scrutinised it, moving his fingers to zoom in on the image. "But we might still get results." He looked up again. "I'm assuming that's what you need? To run this through the system?"

"Yes, it is," he said. "I don't know if the name Jed's a pseudonym, but my guess is that it is."

Gregg handed the mobile back to Mark. "Send it my way, I'll see what I can find," he said.

"Thanks," said Mark; before it slipped his mind, he dropped the photo into an email to Gregg and sent it off. "Much appreciated."

"Now that's out of the way," said Gregg, "how have you been?"

He thought about his stagnant personal life, the humiliation of his wife betraying him mere weeks after the wedding… about how lonely he was, about how his work had become his reason for waking in the morning. Lightning fast these thoughts raced through his head; only a matter of a second or two had actually passed before he replied, "Fine. And you?"

Gregg chuckled; Mark suspected his friend had seen right through him. "I'm 'fine' too," he said. "Exhausted most of the time. Deborah's a couple of weeks away from the popping out the little one—terrified to think how tiring having the actual child around will be."

Mark smiled. He and Gregg talked infrequently but he'd known that Gregg's wife was pregnant. The reminder of this news was bittersweet for Mark to hear; his own wedding and Gregg's wedding had taken place just a few weeks apart. This happy upcoming life event served to underscore how his own marriage had gone horribly wrong. "Time really flies," he said. "Seems just yesterday you were telling me your wife was expecting."

"Time does fly, doesn't it?" Gregg said, swirling his coffee as he sighed. "Will be sending the sprog off to uni before I know it." He took another long sip then set his empty coffee cup down. Mark took this as a cue to depart, and rose from the seat he had occupied.

"Have to be off," he said. "I look forward to hearing back from you about that photo."

"I'll get it processed right away," he said. "We'll send it to Interpol if necessary." After a pause, he added, "I've enjoyed her television shows. I'd hate to see her spend the rest of her life stuck in a Thai prison. Deborah finds her so funny that I don't feel too bad about fancying her a bit—or about Deb fancying Cleaver a bit."

Mark nodded thoughtfully. He didn't know her at all but he was getting a sense of her personality; granted, it was an on-screen personality, but Cleaver seemed to suggest the off-screen personality wasn't too far from it. Having his mother's endorsement for her cause helped even more. However, he couldn't yet rule out that Tess and Bridget had bought then planned to smuggle the drugs out for their own purposes—either to split for personal use, or reselling to (or sharing with) their colleagues. The entertainment industry was rife with substance abuse. He thought back, though, to his lunch with Tess Brown, and thought that she was the last person he might have thought of in conjuring up the image of a coke fiend.

Of course, he thought, it's always foolish to judge by appearances alone…

He realised that it was probably too late in the day, and on the weekend to boot, to make contact with the UK Embassy in Thailand; he could, however, make contact with acquaintances who had some position of power in the government.

When he got home he went straight for his office there, sat down, and started making calls. By the time his stomach reminded him it was long past dinner, he had reached two Cabinet ministers and had left messages with two different contacts at MI-6.

Sunday, 19 April

Sunday morning began with a cacophony of telephones bleating for attention, bringing him to instant wakefulness. On the mobile he saw that it was Daniel Cleaver. With nothing new to report he went for the landline, which turned out to be a smart choice. It was Gregg.

"I've got good news," he said without preamble, "and bad news. Bad news is, we've got nothing here at Metro on your Jed, or your picture. The good news, though, is that Interpol probably does."

"Probably?"

"You can try to contact them directly first tomorrow or Monday," he said. "I was unable to get hold of anyone last night or this morning."

"That's fine," he said. "I appreciate your effort. I'll pick it up in the morning."

"I did forward the picture by email and copied you, so you can get in touch with Cecil yourself," he said. "All right, I'm off. Time to learn how to breathe, or something."

Mark couldn't help chuckling. "We'll speak soon," he said. "Thanks again."

He put the handset down, then reached to check on his mobile; the email to Jacques Cecil had landed in his inbox, and a voice mail awaited him from Cleaver. As expected, he was looking for a status update.

"Don't want to be a pest or wear out my welcome—well, more so than I already have—and I know you've only just begun, but I wanted to know how you're getting on. Thanks."

He immediately rung Daniel back.

"You're right," Mark said. "I have only just begun. But I did meet with and talk to Tess and she's given me this Jed's photo. Metro Police has had a look at it but can't identify him. Interpol has it now, too, but I haven't talked to them yet."

There was an almost stunned silence. "Well," he said at last. "You're good."

"Thank you," he said in reflex. "When I know more, I'll pass it on."

"Will you speak to Interpol today?"

"I'm going to try," Mark said. "Once I've had coffee and breakfast."

"I can take a hint," said Daniel. After a beat, he said, "Thanks again."

He disconnected this call, too, then set down the mobile back onto the nightstand. On a morning like this he wished he could dive straight into his work and have someone bring coffee and pastry to him. He chastised himself, though, for being overly sentimental.

He resigned himself to eating breakfast over the morning newspaper, but the mobile rang again with a number on the display that he did not recognise. This didn't really surprise him—he got calls from unfamiliar numbers all the time—but Sunday morning was unusual even for him.

"Mark Darcy," he said in greeting.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Darcy," said a male voice. "I am Agent Jacques Cecil, from Interpol. I've been eager to reach you."

This too was a new one on Mark. He had worked with Interpol on more than one occasion—he reasoned that this had to do with his new case—but he had never had them initiate contact. "I'm glad to hear from you," Mark said. "I'd hoped to reach you today about the case I'm working on and the related photograph."

"Roger Dwight," said Agent Cecil in an apparent non-sequitur. "We have been tracking him for some time but to have something more concrete on him… I had to contact you as soon as possible."

"So you're familiar with this individual," he said, more of a statement than a question.

"We are," he said. "But he's been like a spirit, impossible to nail down or track. He first came to our attention about five years ago, when we started getting requests for help with British, French, and German women in Thailand who had been taken into custody for drug smuggling. The name of the man that they gave the authorities was different, but his description and their overall stories were eerily similar. When a few took pictures, and a few images came in from hotel and airport CCTV, we realised they were connected because it was the same man. And that man was Roger Dwight."

Mark felt a bit blown away by this info dump. "And is that another pseudonym?"

"That's the name he used when he first entered the system in Surrey on a drugs charge involving marijuana," said Cecil. "I guess he decided to refine his technique, make someone else do the dirty work, and leave as little evidence as possible. Do you know? He actually burnt off his fingerprints. I bet he was quite annoyed to learn of the existence of DNA evidence." At this last comment, Cecil's voice betrayed a hint of amusement.

"So what is that I can do for you?" Mark asked. "It seems you have far more information than I do."

"We were hoping to get information on where exactly Mr Dwight is right now," he said. "If your client knows."

It felt strange to call Bridget Jones his client when they had not even consulted together. "I haven't yet talked to the woman in the Thai prison, Ms Jones," he said. "I've talked with the woman who was actually given the drugs by Dwight, Tess Brown."

Cecil did not speak right away. "They are not the same person?" he asked. "The newspapers nor DI Gregg mentioned there were two women involved."

Mark gave Cecil a briefer version of the story that he'd given to Gregg.

"Well, this is an interesting twist," Cecil said. "I wonder if this means—" He stopped suddenly, as if he had already said too much.

"Whatever you're thinking, say it," Mark said with authority.

"Well, his standard operating procedure is to have an associate at the airport to report in with whether or not the mule—and therefore, the drugs—made it through both departures and arrivals. Your Miss Brown did indeed make it through. Will he make contact, I wonder?"

A cold chill washed over Mark. "Do you think Ms Brown is in danger?"

"Doubtful," he said. "He's going to bide his time before making contact to avert suspicion."

Mark did not feel particularly reassured. "I'll be making arrangements as soon as possible to visit Ms Jones face to face, to verify the story and see if there's anything she knows that Ms Brown doesn't."

"Excellent strategy," said Cecil. "I'll be in touch."

After they disconnected the call, Mark phoned Rebecca, apologising profusely for working on the weekend before she could admonish him. "Getting to Thailand just got a whole lot more urgent," he explained. "There have been some developments, and arrangements can't wait until tomorrow."

To her credit, she did not ask for details, only asked, "How soon do you want to depart?"

"The sooner, the better," he said.

His next call was to Tess Brown, giving her DI Gregg's contact information… and why. She seemed to take the notion of Jed being out and about quite well. "I'll be leaving for Thailand," Mark said, "so if by some chance he does call you…"

"Right," she said resignedly.

He hoped that Rebecca would be able to find something as soon as that evening, so he went to put together his standard travel kit: a few suits, shirts, ties, a shaving kit, and something to read, this time, an account of the sinking of the Lusitania. His mobile buzzed. He checked and found a message from Rebecca with the details of his flight leaving in the early evening.

He paused to text back: Thank you, as always.

She replied, All part of the service. Have a good flight, and good luck.