Everyone Burns (21 page)

By the way, while we’re on the subject of families, the civet cat isn’t really a cat at all. It’s a distant cousin of the mongoose. So kopi luwak is actually
mongoose turd coffee
. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.

*       *       *       *       *

As dusk was gathering, I drove over to the empty house at Bang Rak armed with a printout from Sinclair’s Smiley Cars database. I told myself I was there to perform a dry run of observing the car park and matching the parked vehicles to the ‘unhired cars’ list.

I was really there because I was bored with the idea of observing Jingjai for another uneventful evening, so the dry run enabled me to defer this task for a couple of hours.

The neighbourhood was unlit and the property was big. Using Sinclair’s spare set of keys I opened the padlock on the sliding gate and stepped onto the drive. The garden was a mess of broken concrete and stacked tiles. A large plastic bin, half-full of sand and cigarette butts, stood forlornly by the edge of the ruined pool. I let myself into the house and made my way onto the back balcony. A dog barked in the distance: no curious incidents in
this
night-time.

Sinclair was right. There was a perfect view of his car park; and although I was only able to make out some of the number plates, by comparing the makes and colours I could deduce which car was which and match them to my list. There were no cars missing. Kwanchai was being good today.

As the waning light segued into a soothing darkness I lit a cigarette and relaxed into the moment. There was nothing more to be done, so I opened the trapdoor to my subconscious, climbed in, and had a root around.

My father was seventy-five. Yai was getting his sight back and Bee was getting her grandfather back. Somebody was sending anonymous letters. My wife was probably about to leave me. The Old Monk was being enigmatic and I was no nearer to solving the murders. There was still no rain.

I visualised myself pressing the ‘locate’ button on my Moral Global Positioning System. The display came up like a teleprompter.

I am a man who … sleeps with another man’s wife; and

I am a man who … helps the blind to see; and

I am a man who … thinks he can fix other people; and

I am a man who … needs to fix himself.

I switched to Latin Mode.
In regione caecorum rex est luscus
. Except that, dear Erasmus, the one-eyed man is not always king.

Such were the thoughts rolling like tumbleweeds through my dry brain in this dry season.

*       *       *       *       *

Since I had no intention of following Jingjai home after her shift, and no conviction it would be necessary anyway, I took the jeep into Chaweng.

I discovered
Vladimir sitting alone at a corner table in the Ocean Pearl and he was in a less-than-exuberant mood. Even in the Pearl’s subdued lighting I could see the bruising on his face, and there were scratches on his neck which looked like they may have been made by fingernails.

Apparently his big fight on Friday night had not gone as well as expected: against the odds, he had lost to a visiting boxer from Poland.

“He was big,” said Vlad by way of explanation.

“Bigger than
you
?” I asked. “I’m surprised they could fit him in the arena.”

“Is big disgrace for Russian losing to Polish,” he said miserably. “This week I train hard, and next week I kick his Polish ass. We have
remash
.”

“You mean ‘rematch’.”

“Yes.”

“And how about the scratches?” I indicated his neck. “Girlfriend trouble too?”

He gave a non-committal shrug. “I stay away from girls for a while.”

I decided to keep him company for an hour or two. There was no point in going home
. Claire wouldn’t be around for a few days, assuming she would ever be around again. I didn’t want to think about Claire. I didn’t really want to think about anything.

The
Pearl was quieter than it had been recently. I stayed away from the bar although I snapped a few shots of Jingjai out of habit. The guy from Manchester was nowhere to be seen, and I surmised he’d finally taken the hint and given up. Maybe he’d lowered his sights and was knocking back watered-down spirits in Girly Bar Heaven.

Vlad was not exactly great company. He insisted on taking me kick-by-kick through the highlights of Friday’s
Muay Thai, although the technicalities were wasted on me. I slapped a phoney smile on my face, smoked, nodded at the appropriate points, and downed several beers and whisky chasers. The Russian was still reticent about the reason for his continued presence on the island, but I couldn’t have cared less. I was happy to let my brain rot awhile; so I let him ramble on about the difference between his hometown women and Thai women, and how Mother Russia had regained her pride under Putin and was taking her rightful place in the world once more.

By midnight I’d had enough. Nobody was chatting up Jingjai and even after the alcohol infusion Vlad was boring me witless
, so I took a slow walk along the beach to clear my head before turning back onto the main street.

Arriving back at the jeep, I saw the Thai tramp camped out for the night in an adjacent doorway. If anything, he looked
to be in an even more pathetic state than when I’d last seen him. I was surprised he hadn’t taken the hint from the police and left Samui, but then perhaps he just didn’t have anywhere else to go; or maybe he was hanging on until Chinese New Year in the hope that fortune might smile and he might pick up a few red envelopes stuffed with money from festive locals.

Before driving slowly home to my big empty bed, I rummaged in my pockets for some Baht and handed it to him. I didn’t think he’d mind the fact that
the money wasn’t in a red envelope.

“Good luck.”

7

“Watchfulness is the path to immortality:

Unwatchfulness is the path of death.

Those who are watchful never die:

Those who do not watch are already as dead.”

Lord Buddha, The Dhammapada

From the moment I open my eyes I have the feeling that today I need to be alert, and I already
feel
alert. Something is heading my way, something big and potentially unmanageable. I can sense it in my bones. I don’t know what has put me in this twitchy mood. Maybe this is how a nervous breakdown starts; or maybe Wayan sneaked into my room last night and rubbed cocaine on my gums. Whatever, I am extremely wired. Lucky I don’t carry a gun or I’d be popping a cap in somebody’s ass.

The image of Wayan in my bedroom with her fingers in my mouth is still disturbingly in my mind as I have breakfast.
She leans across the table to pour me some juice and I experience an almost uncontrollable urge to put my head between her breasts. I have a monster erection and I can feel the sweat breaking out on my brow. Wayan notices my discomfort and puts a hand on my forehead, which only makes matters worse.

“Is something up, Mr
. David?”

It most certainly is, but I can’t tell her what. I mumble something about feeling dehydrated.

As she moves away to get me a glass of water, I can’t help noticing how sinuously her buttocks, thighs and hips move as she walks.

When did I last have sex?
I can’t remember. If Wayan touches me again … It doesn’t bear thinking about. I need to get out of the house.

When she returns, I gulp down the water as fast as I can and make a hurried exit hoping she doesn’t notice the bulge in my chinos.

I wheel-spin the jeep off the drive, go a hundred metres down the road then brake too quickly as I stop the car, and clouds of dust rise up around me. I can feel my heart thudding like it’s coming out of my chest. I wind down the window, light a cigarette and try to stop my hands from shaking.

Jesus, what’s gotten into me? Am I having a heart attack? I sit by the side of the road
taking deep breaths and hoping that Wayan doesn’t come out of the front door; since from where I’m parked, I’m still visible from the house.

I smoke three cigarettes, one after the other, and the jerking in my limbs subsides.
The adrenalin flood abates, and the psychotic ants stop crawling around my nervous system. I check whether I can hold an image of Wayan in my head without it triggering an erection. I find that I can, just about, provided I don’t imagine her in a tight top. I rotate my neck to get rid of the crick, throw my cigarette butt out of the window
and drive to the office.

When I arrive at the
David Braddock Agency I am relieved that on seeing Da my brain does not fill up with images of penetration involving my third-trimester employee. The withering and somewhat scornful look I receive from my receptionist the instant I cross the threshold would in any event shrivel any residual erotic notions.

“
Khun David, good morning,” she says with heavy irony.

I know that tone. I throw my straw hat at the hat
rack and miss.

“What have I done?” I say.

“Who can say?” she replies. “But you had an early visitor this morning.
Miss Noi
dropped by to settle the account for her ‘emergency weekend therapy session’, as she called it. She seemed disappointed you weren’t here. She insisted on paying double the normal rate,
as it was so late on Saturday night when she had her session with you
.”

“And
?” I say innocently.

Da squints at me suspiciously. “Are we providing a weekend call-out service now?” she asks. “Or should I say ‘drop by service’?”

“Well … this weekend I was seeing Sinclair anyway, so I thought ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’, as we Brits say.”

“She paid double,” Da says accusingly.

I spread my arms. “What can I say? Someone values my services.”

“
Double
,” she says again, as if the idea were incomprehensible. “And she looked smug about it.”

“Do I detect a trace of the green-eyed monster? Surely not. But then again, what woman can resist the Braddock charms?”

Da points to herself. “This one. Probably many others also.”

“Da, my dear,” I say sweetly, “
may your labour be long and your contractions exquisitely painful.”

“Huh,” she says.

I pat her shoulder condescendingly. “I remember vividly when Claire was pregnant with Katie. Claire was lying there screaming in agony and shouting
Get this thing out of me!
”

Da looks concerned. “So your daughter’s birth was difficult?”

“The birth? No. I was talking about the conception.”

“You are such a comedian,
Khun David,” she says stony-faced.

“Anyway, enough of this idle banter, Miss Da. I have some serious work for you to do.”

I tell her about Yai, how I’ve volunteered to pay for the operation on his eyes, and that I want her to make the arrangements. She thinks I’m joking and it takes me a few minutes to convince her I’m not. I’m amused watching her facial expressions as she goes through various revisions to her opinion of me; starting with
bad taste joker
then mutating by degrees to
compassionate, misunderstood human being
.

When she’s finally convinced I’m serious, she volunteers unbidden to make me a coffee, squeezes my arm affectionately and promises to phone each of the Samui hospitals to get me the best price. I give her Yai’s and Bee’s cell
phone numbers so she can liaise with them, before I go into the East Office to email Sinclair.

I tell him that I’ve had a dry run observing the car park (without incident) and that I should be able to start in earnest tomorrow.

I’ve decided tonight will be my last evening watching Jingjai personally, unless something interesting happens. After this I’ll get Prem – one of the Chaweng street urchins I employ periodically – to keep an eye on her and report back anything naughty.

After I’ve fired off Sinclair’s email and scanned the newspapers, I have time for a lazy cigarette and a second cup of coffee before my appointment with the Widow Suttikul, a sweet if loquacious old lady who comes in periodically for advice on what she should do about her will. She has two sons, both of whom adore her, and neither of whom lives on the island; so she gets lonely and comes in to chat on the pretence of fussing over her post mortem dispositions. Da knows to charge her a ‘special’ rate. I’d really prefer to see her FOC, but Mrs
. Suttikul won’t hear of receiving any charity.

By the time the old lady has finished with me, my sexual adrenalin rush of this morning is long since forgotten.

Next I phone Prasert Promsai to find out how the heart-to-heart discussion with his brother went. The conversation almost instantly takes a disturbing and unexpected turn.

“The discussion went badly,
Khun David. We both lost our tempers.” Prasert sounds worried.

“Go on.”

“I told him he was dishonest. He wouldn’t own up to what he was doing, so I became annoyed. I even accused him of stealing from me during the failed property development outside Lamai; the one he’d got me involved in some years ago.”

My ears prick up. “Wait a moment, Prasert. The property development that went bust was
outside of Lamai
?”

Prasert is confused. “Yes. But I don’t see why that matters
–”

“Never mind, it’s probably nothing. What did Nikom say to that?”

“He was very angry, started shouting. He said that I was ungrateful and that he was working even now to get my money back on that investment. Said on my behalf he was still chasing the foreign investors who were behind it. All rubbish, of course. He was just blustering, trying to cover his tracks.”

“Very probably. Did he say
how
he’s pursuing the investors, or even who they
are
?”

“No. It’s all nonsense anyway.” He sighs. “Before our talk deteriorated Nikom admitted he was gambling again. Not only cock fighting. He’s even been involved in organising beetle fights – some filthy racket he’d picked up from Northerners he’d met in Bangkok.”

“Rhino beetles?” I ask. “The ones that eat the coconut trees?” This is getting weirder by the minute.

“Yes.”

“So what happened next?”

“He said he would show me how wrong I was about him. He said again that he would get my money back. Then he left slamming the door behind him.”

“Where is your brother now, Prasert?”

There is a pause. “I don’t know. He’s disappeared.”

“Maybe he’s just sulking.”

“No,
Khun David, he’s gone. We rowed on Friday evening. He left and he hasn’t been home since. I’m worried.”

“Prasert, it’s important that you call me straightaway if your brother gets in touch with you. Will you do that?”

He is mystified. “Of course. But I don’t see why –”

“Never mind. Just call me, OK?”

“Very well.”

“Have you told the police he’s gone missing?”

“No. And I won’t. This is family business. The police won’t be involved.”

I reassure him that he’s done the right thing, and that the previous situation was untenable. He agrees wearily, but his voice is tinged with regret and hurt. I ring off.

Unknown foreign investors
- Bankrupt property development –

Two dead farangs
- A Thai with a grudge - Rhino beetles

My head is spinning. I flip open my notebook and look at the diagram of ‘Braddock’s Web’. I take a pencil, make some additional connections and colour in some of the circles.

Supposing the dead men were investors in the failed property development and it was their failure to put in cash that resulted in the collapse? Ashley and Boehme had both spent time in Samui some years ago: it was conceivable they could be the anonymous backers.

If Nikom Promsai had lost out in the scheme, or he genuinely did have a desire to get his brother’s money back, might he have gone after the men? If they knew him and trusted him, maybe he could have lured them to the grove on some pretence.

And there was something else. Geordie Sinclair knew Nikom – Prasert’s ‘slimy little brother’ he’d called him. The Northerner had told me he steered clear of property investments following a
bad experience
. Sinclair’s coconut trees were being destroyed by Rhino beetles, and Nikom was arranging beetle fights here on the island. If Sinclair had also been an investor, maybe the beetles were some kind of a warning, and Nikom could be going after him next.

I don’t like the Geordie, but that’s no reason he should get killed.

I ring his cell phone but there is no answer. I try again. Still no-one picks up. Worrying.

I’m just looking up the number for Sinclair’s office when my own ce
ll phone rings, and the tale takes another twist.

*       *       *       *       *

Everyone burns, but not everyone is burned. But someone else has been.

The caller is Charoenkul. A third body has been found. Papa Doc sounds like he doesn’t know whether to be happy about it or pissed off. Happy because Investigator Katchai now has a bigger PR headache; pissed off because said Investigator may now have more clues and could therefore be nearer to finding the killer.

“I want you to go to the crime scene,” barks the Chief.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say, “I’m dressed for a barbecue.”

“Good. I want you to leave now.”

“
Isn’t Katchai’s team crawling all over the murder site? I don’t see how I can just turn up and say, ‘Hi I’m a curious Englishman; can I have a look at the body?’”