The Dying Beach (17 page)

Bapit walked along the driveway of the Charoen Sand and Gravel Supplies compound, keeping an eye out for his nephew, and taking the opportunity to cast his eye over the employees' motorbikes parked by the warehouse. Mindful of Sergeant Yongyuth's advice, he looked for anything that stood out, anything shiny, new, out of the ordinary. He didn't see it. The motorbikes, though clean, were worn, decals not quite hiding the blistering paint on one, tyres almost bald on another. A couple of his employees still rode bicycles to work. Bapit defied anyone to murder a farang woman and make a getaway by bicycle.

Finding no grounds to suspect he was harbouring a murderer that morning, Bapit was poised to withdraw to his office when a motorbike roared into view. He recognised the broad shoulders of his nephew. Othong was driving too fast, tyres leaving black tracks on the road as he screamed to a halt.

‘Morning, Uncle,' he said, dismounting at the top of the driveway and wheeling his bike to the parking bay. ‘Sorry I'm late. Slept in.'

Bapit looked him up and down, registered the reflective sunglasses and a new bomber jacket, neither of which he'd noticed before. The jacket was ostentatious, red satin with a tiger on the back. Brand new.

‘Where did you get that jacket?' Bapit asked as Othong snapped the motorbike stand into place.

‘Like it? Bought it at Vogue.' He leaned closer and spoke behind his hand. ‘Uncle made me burn my last one, remember?'

‘Where did you get the money?'

‘I work for a living, same as everyone else here.' Othong removed the jacket, folded it and stowed it under his motorbike seat. He made for the loading area but Bapit seized his arm.

‘No one else here is parading around in new clothes.'

Othong shrugged. ‘Different priorities, I guess.'

Bapit tightened his grip. Othong stared at his uncle's hand and tensed his muscles, but wouldn't look him in the eye. Bapit felt the strength in the boy's biceps, those same muscles that made him money. He knew his nephew worked out at the gym in town and he'd once spied Othong standing bare-chested in front of a mirror, posing like a bodybuilder.

The boy was young. He was vain. He had his motorcycle mirrors turned inwards so he could see himself, not what was behind him as he drove. Bapit wouldn't put it past him to blow a week's wages on a satin bomber jacket.

‘I'm docking fifty baht from your pay for being late,' Bapit said. Othong scowled and tried to shake the old man off, but Bapit dug his fingers in like claws. ‘And if I see that fucking jacket again I will burn it, too.'

27

Ban Huay Sok was south of the mine site, a humble village bordered by palm oil plantations, the minarets of its mosque painted the same glossy green as the surrounding palm fronds. A woman hauling water from a well directed Jayne and Rajiv to the village headman's house, a modest wooden building lined on one side with ceramic jars large enough to hide an adult. A small barefoot child with a baby strapped to her back showed them to the rubber plantation where her grandfather was working.

With its leafy canopy and colonnades of trees, the plantation offered sanctuary from the punishing heat. The trees were carved with serpentine incisions to extract the resin, which flowed into small coconut-shell cups attached to the trunks. The high priest of this leafy temple was bare-chested and wore a faded blue-and-black checked sarong around his waist. He carried a knife with a crescent-shaped blade, which he pressed between his hands as he returned their greetings
.

He introduced himself as Headman Jaturun and ushered them to a small open-sided hut in the middle of the plantation. He poured water from a thermos into a communal cup and offered it to them. Jayne took a sip and passed it to Rajiv, who followed suit. The water was lukewarm and tasted of dust. Rajiv passed the cup back to Jaturun, whose face lit up in a gap-toothed grin. Up close, the priest of the rubber-tree temple looked like a bandit.

Having already sat through one interview with a headman, Rajiv was able to follow a good deal of Jayne's conversation with Jaturun. Like his counterpart in the previous village, Jaturun appeared unaware of Pla's death and distressed to hear the news. He insisted the people of Ban Huay Sok loved Pla and would never do her any harm.

‘
Mai mee khu aree
,' he insisted. ‘
Mee teh pheuan
.'

Pla had no enemies in Huay Sok village, only friends, Rajiv understood him saying. Jaturun described Pla's role as Amnat had done, as an advocate who'd given the villagers the confidence to voice their concerns.

‘He says they have Pla to thank for getting the power company to agree to pipe water from the project site to the village,' Jayne told Rajiv. ‘He says the water quality is better than the bore wells they currently rely on.'

The old man gestured at the thermos as if to prove his point.

‘Jaturun feels strongly that the mystery of Miss Pla's death cannot be solved in Huay Sok village.'

The old man said something else to Jayne, which Rajiv didn't catch. He asked her to translate as they made their way back through the plantation to where the motorbike was parked.

‘He said the villagers will want to attend Pla's funeral. And there was something I didn't catch—it sounded like
nou-ree
.'

‘It's a ritual feeding performed at major points in the life cycle, such as birth and death,' Rajiv said. ‘A Muslim tradition, but it's linked to animist beliefs.'

‘How the hell do you know a thing like that?'

Rajiv nodded his head. It was no secret. He read books. Not as Jayne did, to escape from the world, but to develop a deeper understanding of it. According to Rajiv's research, whether Muslim or Buddhist, Thai people believed spirits were all around them and must be appeased. Much like Indian people did.

But as they pulled out of Huay Sok village, the one who most needed appeasing was Jayne. Rajiv sensed her frustration building like monsoonal rain. They were making no headway with the case, leaving him to wonder if they had a case at all.

How to break that news to Jayne?

28

The last of the villages Paul mentioned was Laem Kruad, the Cape of Small Stones. Jayne parked the motorbike where the sealed road ended at a T-intersection, opposite the entrance to the Laem Kruad Pier.

They turned right, heading west. Laem Kruad village looked distinctly Chinese. Wooden houses lined the road, shutters closed tight as packing crates. Over the doorways were banners, pasted like labels, of red and gold Chinese characters to augur wealth and good fortune. Ancestral shrines jutted out from pillars and walls, with small shelves bearing incense, fruit and cups of tea.

The street was empty, though a sandwich board by the side of the road indicated the beauty salon was open for business, and muted conversation was audible behind the closed door of the pharmacy. Jayne and Rajiv walked to where the road ended at a compound, a Chinese temple visible over the top of a red metal gate. Gold dragons faced off along the ridge of the temple roof, teeth bared and whiskers bristling.

They retraced their steps to the pharmacy and opened the door. It was like walking into a large cupboard, with its dark wood panelling, glass-fronted display cabinets and walls of tiny drawers. On the shelves behind the counter were rows of seashells as big as babies' heads.

A bell over the door drew out the pharmacist, an angular woman in a white coat and horn-rimmed glasses. Jayne asked for directions to the
phu yai ban
. The pharmacist grunted and waved them back to where they started.

They continued past the pier, and seemed to enter a different village altogether. The eastern end of Laem Kruad was distinctly Muslim. Women wore headscarves. Old men wore lace caps. Some signs were in Arabic as well as Thai. Despite the heat, the streets were bustling. Women dished out snacks from vendor carts—roti pancakes smothered in condensed milk—while men sat talking at tables in the shade. Ornate bamboo birdcages dangled from the eaves of every building and the air was filled with birdsong. Some of the birds were of such startling aqua and green they looked as if they'd come from the Andaman Sea itself.

‘Bulbul.' Rajiv nodded at a black-and-white bird with bright red cheeks and a pointy black crest. ‘They are popular cagebirds in India, too.'

‘They're known here as
nok khuad jook
. Topknot birds.' Jayne pulled her hair into a tuft to demonstrate, making Rajiv grin.

They ducked through a gap in a bank of caged bulbuls and were ushered through a shop to the restaurant behind, which looked out over the pier and nearby islands. The place was deserted apart from an old man, who sat by the railing with a bulbul in a cage on the table in front of him.

When he stood to greet them, the folds of his white sarong almost brushed the floor. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt, cream vest and a white crocheted cap. His hair and beard were also white, but his black eyes were bright and his olive skin had the radiance of a younger man. His smile revealed what appeared to be rare in the district, a set of straight white teeth.

After exchanging greetings, the village headman, whose name was Ali, invited them to sit. He summoned a girl to bring them cold drinks.

‘My granddaughter,' he said, as she disappeared into the shop. ‘Now, how can I help you?'

Jayne was too hot and bothered to beat around the bush.

‘
Chai
,' she said, taking out her notebook. ‘We've come to talk with you about the proposed power plant at Pakasai.'

‘Are you more consultants?' Ali addressed the question to Rajiv, who shook his head.

‘We are friends of Miss Pla,' Jayne persisted.

‘Ah, Miss Pla,' Ali said, beaming at her. ‘She is a good friend of Laem Kruad village.'

‘Then I have news that may sadden you,
Chai
,' Jayne said. ‘Miss Pla passed away late last week.'

Ali's smile dimmed. ‘That does indeed sadden me. Please, tell me what happened.'

‘It's alleged Miss Pla drowned in the sea off Princess Beach,' Jayne said.

Ali nodded, said nothing.

‘But we have questions about the circumstances of her death. We know Miss Pla was helping villagers negotiate with the power company over the proposed plant. Maybe she made enemies in the process, people who might have wanted to harm her.'

The reappearance of his granddaughter gave Ali a moment to consider the idea. The girl placed tall icy glasses of lemon juice in front of Jayne and Rajiv, and a glass of hot green tea for her grandfather. Jayne took a long, grateful sip; the juice was spiked with sugar and salt.

‘The people of Laem Kruad and the villages upstream had concerns about the discharge of wastewater from the power plant and its impact on the quality of water in the
khlong
,' Ali said when the girl had gone. ‘Many people are frightened that the fish and shrimp nurseries in the mangroves will be affected. The company sent the aquatic health specialists to meet with us and, while they maintain there is no risk, they have agreed to monitor water quality with tests every six months. Miss Pla and her farang friend helped negotiate that.'

‘Mister Porn?' Jayne said. ‘He visited Laem Kruad?'

Ali nodded. ‘When the consultants from Bangkok were here.'

‘So have those measures allayed the concerns of the people of Laem Kruad?'

‘For the most part. We are still concerned about the transportation of fuel by barge along the canals to the power plant. If ever there was an accident…' He gestured to the view. Across a broad stretch of water were islands fringed with mangroves and, beyond them, an undulating horizon of forested hills. Longtail boats meandered between the pier and the islands. On the pier a family—father in shorts and singlet, mother in long sleeves and a sunhat, and two small boys—watched their fishing rods for signs of movement.

‘We have lived for generations in harmony with the environment,' Ali said. ‘I may be an old man but I'm no fool. I know change comes as surely as death. But we do what we can to sift the goodness from the harm in whatever fortune befalls us. That's all Pla was helping us to do. Why would anyone want to hurt her for that?'

‘She would've made things inconvenient for the company.'

‘I never had that impression,' Ali said. ‘I think the consultants needed Pla. When they went back to Bangkok with our recommendations, they had proof to show they'd been listening to the villagers.'

Jayne paused to translate for Rajiv.

‘It is the same thing Mae Yada said, isn't it?' he said.

Jayne nodded, sighed and put away her notepad. The old man had returned his attention to the birdcage, chirping softly at the bulbul.

‘Are you teaching that bird to talk,
Chai
?' Jayne asked.

Ali shook his head. ‘I'm teaching her to sing. I'm counting on this one to win the
keng nok
championship.'

Keng nok
. Songbird contests. Was there nothing the Thais couldn't turn into a competition?

‘With all due respect,
Chai
, how can a person teach a bird to sing? Shouldn't it be the other way around?'

Ali smiled. ‘Her voice is her own. But I teach her the tunes she needs to win.'

Jayne shared Ali's words with Rajiv on their walk back to the motorbike.

‘It's like what they say about Miss Pla,' Rajiv said. ‘The villagers' voices are their own, but she's taught them the tunes to sing—how best to use their voices.'

It was an astute and beautiful observation, but Jayne was too impatient to do it justice. They'd spent half a day listening to different people say the same thing over and over without bringing them any closer to explaining Pla's death.

She mounted the bike and put on her helmet. ‘Let's go.'

Rajiv unhooked the second helmet from the handlebars. ‘Where to?'

Jayne pretended not to hear him and fired up the engine. Rajiv took a step back.