The Coroner's Lunch (20 page)

Turning first to the signature, he saw it was penned by “a fellow crime fighter,” an indication that Phosy also feared it might be tampered with.

It began with a jolt.

My dear Maigret,
The hairdresser’s dead. My first suspicion upon hearing that was probably the same as your own. But comK was away at the time and this had all the hallmarks of a suicide. I was in the station when the case came in. The officer who’d gone to her apartment found the body, together with a suicide note. She’d slashed her wrists with one of the cut-throats from the salon.
Her arms were in a bowl of water that I assume had been warm at the time of the suicide. This is a way to stop the blood from clotting. She was paper-white, so it was quite obvious she’d bled to death. It’s unfortunate you were away, as the body would naturally have gone to you. As it was, the temple was eager to get her in the ground for all those religious reasons I’m sure you understand better than me.
The note confessed that she’d been desperately in love with comK, that she was jealous of the wife but couldn’t see him leaving her. She decided to do away with the competition. Access wasn’t a problem. One little detail I’d forgotten to check (sorry, I have been growing vegetables for a year) was that the salon she worked at was the same one where Mrs. N had her hair done. I guess it wouldn’t have been so difficult for her to add the Cy. to the headache pills while she was under the toaster or whatever it is women do in those places.
I interviewed comK. He appeared to be distraught. I got the feeling he really had a soft spot for the girl. I’ve got one or two thoughts about all this. I haven’t submitted a report on anything other than finding the suicide victim. I’ll get your views when I’m back from the north (seminar). 1. comK is off the hook as far as I can see. 2. The murderer has already been tried and sentenced by her own conscience. 3. I wonder whether it’s to anyone’s advantage to make any of this other stuff public.
But of course I’m just a cop. What do I know? If you disagree, I’ll be happy to reconsider. Hope your holiday went well. Look forward to hearing the stories. Best wishes.
A fellow crime fighter.

The coffee was cold.

“Well, I suppose that’s that.” He reheated the water and spooned the last of his Hanoi coffee grains into the filter. “All neatly tied up and buried.” He took his fresh coffee to the desk, but left the lamp on the coffee table. He blew away the steam and looked out at the moonlit temple grounds.

Saffron robes swayed gently on the washing lines. An elderly monk ladled water from a large earthenware jar onto the head of a young novice. A rusting Renault, now a garden ornament, wore two sleeping temple cats as hood ornaments. Everything was at peace.

“All neatly tied up and buried.”

Siri went to bed late, woke up early, and had no dreams at all. As he was leaving the house, he used his old chisel to gouge out the two shells from their holes in the front door. It left two ugly scars that he knew Miss Vong would complain about for a month. Saloop sat at his feet as he worked and looked up at him faithfully.

Eager to see the results of Nguyen Hong’s investigation, Siri was at the morgue by six, too early even for roadside noodles. If he’d expected to find something at the morgue, he was disappointed. His desk was empty of messages, notes, or completed reports. Hok and Tran had vacated the freezer, which stood gaping and unplugged. The last notes in Dtui’s exercise book were about his autopsy of Tran 1, not surprising as she couldn’t possibly have taken notes from the Vietnamese coroner.

There was little point in being there at all. He had a lot of time on his hands, so he penciled a note and walked it down to the offices behind the Parliament building. Joggers and cyclists still owned four-lane Lan Xang Avenue at that hour. A small group of tai chi uncles did combat with invisible slow-motion enemies in the shadow of the great Anusawari Arch.

Parliament was still in bed, but the guard promised to hand the note to Comrade Civilai when he got in. The noodle man was setting up when Siri got back to the hospital. He was given the first batch of noodles, in broth that had been freshly made, but it still tasted the same as ever: stale.

He ate slowly and dawdled his way into the hospital grounds, but he still had half an hour to kill. So he strolled around to the back of the morgue to the
khon khouay
office. He wasn’t at all surprised to see Comrade Ketkaew sitting at his metal desk, writing some urgent expose of this or that traitor.

“Morning, Comrade Ketkaew.” The man looked shocked to see him. The small earphone on a wire that he had been wearing vanished into his desk drawer.

“I hope you aren’t secretly listening to Thai radio.”

Siri walked in and sat on the spare chair the chicken counter reserved for interrogations. Ketkaew nodded but didn’t bother to speak. He eyed Siri suspiciously.

“I hope your wife gives you a good breakfast to build up your strength, working as hard as you do.”

“I cook for myself,” Ketkaew shouted, even though Siri was not a foot from him.

“Don’t tell me you aren’t married.”

“Who has time for all that? In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a very responsible job. Now, what is it you…?”

“That’s very interesting.”

“What is?”

“That a good-looking chap like you doesn’t have a wife.”

“Hey, listen. I like women, you know. I’m not….”

“Of course you do. And it’s quite clear women like you, too.”

“I could have my pick.”

“Naturally. Responsible job and all.”

“Anyone I want, really. If I could be bothered.”

“Exactly. That’s just what I told her.”

“Her?”

“That’s why she didn’t think she had a chance, not with all the competition, and you having so little time.” He stood to leave. “I’ll pass on the message.”

“You. Is this, er, someone I might know?”

“Probably not. ’Bye.”

“I know a lot of people, you know. What’s her name?”

“Vong.”

“Vong what? I’ve got several Vongs in my district. Where does she work?” Siri noticed a pearl of saliva at the corner of the man’s mouth.

“Department of Education. Right in the middle of your domain of responsibility, if I’m not mistaken. She was here the other day, noticed you diligently performing your revolutionary duties, and I swear I saw the poor lady blush. She asked me about you.”

Ten minutes later, Siri was back in his office with a big naughty smile on his chops.

“Oh, to be a lizard on the wall of Vong’s office when the chicken counter comes a-wooing.”

Eight o’clock arrived and he stood under the MORGUE sign, waiting to welcome his staff. He’d missed them. At 8:15 he was still standing there; no sign of Dtui or Mr. Geung. He went back inside to check the calendar, but there was no mention of a national holiday. He paced anxiously up and down in the carpark. He wasn’t worried about their being late. He was more concerned about their being dead. The shells in his pocket rattled together as he walked.

At 9:30, Siri was sitting outside the office of Suk, the hospital director. Suk had ignored Siri on the way to a staff meeting, then ignored him again on his way back. Right now there was a North Korean pharmaceutical company rep in with him. Communism matched up some strange bedfellows.

When the Korean left, Siri slipped onto the warmed seat he’d vacated.

“Well, Dr. Siri. You finally ran out of holiday money.”

“It was a case. I was sent by the Justice Department.”

“For an autopsy that took a week.”

“For two autopsies that took two days. The rest of the time, I was getting over malaria.”

Before becoming a paper-shuffler, the director had been a doctor. He looked Siri up and down for some sign of a man who’d just gotten over a disease that killed twelve thousand Lao a year.

“I’m delighted you survived.”

“Thanks. Where is my staff?”

“They were reassigned.”

Siri felt a tremendous relief. “They can’t be reassigned without my agreement.”

“Really? Well, as you weren’t here, nobody objected. We’re very understaffed, as you know. I wasn’t about to let a qualified nurse sit around reading comic books on the off chance you might come back.”

“Where is she?”

“Urology.”

Siri chuckled. “That’ll teach her. What about Geung?”

“He’s digging a sewage trench.”

“He’s an experienced morgue technician.”

“His absence of written qualifications makes him a sewage trench digger.”

“I want them back.”

“You have nothing for them to do.”

“I’ll have a body by 1:30.”

“How can you be so sure? You planning on killing someone yourself?” Suk laughed at his own wit until he noticed the macabre way Siri was eyeing him.

“Hello, Doctor.”

“How you doing? You got my nurse, Dtui, in here?”

“Sure do. She’s out back. Go on through.”

An elderly lady was up on a couch naked from the waist down. Dtui in plastic gloves crouched between her legs. She looked up and seemed truly delighted to see Siri.

“Doc? Thank God. Rescue me. Take me back to the morgue. If I have to insert my fingers in one more grumpy old lady, I’ll scream.”

The lady tried to cover herself up.

“It’s okay. I’m a doctor.”

“Actually, he’s a coroner. But live ones, dead ones, they’re pretty much the same to him.”

It was too much for the lady, who wrapped her
phasin
around herself and fled.

“I can see why you prefer to work with corpses. But fear not, nurse Dtui. You’ll both be back in the morgue this afternoon. Anything unusual happen while I was away?”

“Nothing much. Your Vietnamese mate’s gone back to Hanoi.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Probably. But we had no idea what it was.”

“Did he leave anything for me?”

“His report and a letter or something.”

“Good.”

“Given there’s a lot of secret stuff I don’t know about, I hid ’em.”

“Good girl. Where are they?”

“In the hospital library. Under ‘V’. You know nobody ever goes up there.”

He decided to leave the Vietnamese report where it was. He was certain somebody would like to get their hands on it. He spent a few minutes breaking the law back in his office, then set off on Dtui’s bicycle toward Dongmieng.

The temple at Sri Bounheuan was just as well cared for as Hay Sok behind his house, but the atmosphere there was more frenetic. The Departments of Culture and Education had set up a pilot literacy project. All the monks, regardless of educational backgrounds, had been recruited to teach.

The current philosophy was that Buddha was a communist. He’d given up his status and wealth as a protest against capitalism, and had striven to break down class barriers. As a reflection of these socio-politico-economic roots, monks were being yoked to blackboards up and down the country.

The number of liberated Lao citizens attending school had risen 75 percent since the Pathet Lao takeover. Lao radio never let anyone forget that. It didn’t mention what they did in the schools they attended, or the near-absence of qualified teachers. And it didn’t say that the burden of this new education system fell broadly on the shoulders of the monkhood.

They’d built rows of banana-leaf classrooms and filled them with logs split down the center for benches. The students ranged from five-year-old orphans to sixty-five-year-old grandmothers. They didn’t have any books or pencils, and the blackboards were the backs of old Royalist billboards. They may not have been learning a lot, but they all seemed to be having a good time.

The abbot was up a crooked bamboo ladder painting a stupa. His robe was tied up between his legs like an orange diaper. He was turning the dirty grey tope into a light blue birthday cake.

“Shouldn’t that be white?” Siri asked.

For some reason, the only paint to be had for the previous few months had been swimming-pool blue, a color that was slowly becoming synonymous with the new regime. The airport already blended nicely with the sky. Civilai argued it was the committee’s long-term plan to paint everything Wattay blue so astronauts would be able to recognize Laos from space.

“I don’t care if it’s black, as long as we can keep the elements off it for another year.” The abbot hooked the paint can over a cement elephant’s trunk and came down. He looked over the top edge of his glasses at his visitor. “I seem to remember you.”

“So you should, Abbot. We were in Pakse together about two hundred years ago.”

“Well, I’ll be…Siri, isn’t it?” Siri smiled and started to make an obeisance, but the old abbot grabbed his hand and pumped away at it. “You don’t look any different.”

“Really? You mean I was a wrinkled old codger with a stoop, even then?”

“Neither of us was really sure what we were then. You had to decide whether to follow your pretty wife to Vietnam, if I recall. I had a choice between riding a pushbike for the national team in the Asia Games, or following the love of my life to Australia.”

“Which one did you go for, in the end?”

“Neither. Look at me. I was so confused, I went on a retreat at Wat Sokpaluang and they never let me leave.”

They laughed.

“How on earth did you find me?”

“Oh, I heard a while ago you were here. One of the other teachers from the youth camp told me.”

“And how’s that pretty wife, Siri?”

“I’m afraid she died a few years back.”

“Ah. I’m not surprised. It can be tough for a woman in the jungle.”

“It’s even tougher if someone throws a grenade at you.”

“You aren’t wrong. Still, no shame in being brought down in battle.”

“She wasn’t in battle. She was in bed. She was sleeping. I was off on some campaign. It seems someone tossed a grenade into her tent. We never found out who.”

Siri was surprised at how easy it was to talk about. He’d kept this story inside himself for eleven years; now here he was blurting it out to a monk he hardly knew. The Catholics had it right. It was very therapeutic to share a burden with a man of the cloth. Except the Catholics probably handled it more delicately than the Lao.