The Dying Beach (21 page)

As the boat chugged away from Phi Phi Leh towards the resort island of Phi Phi Don, Paul sat on the prow and gazed into sea so clear he could see the black-and-yellow striped fish that amassed around the hull. He was pretty sure they had a military-type name, but an American taking photographs next to him kept referring to them as tiger fish. Paul should have been too relaxed to care but he couldn't let American arrogance go unchecked.

‘Mate, I think you'll find they're called sergeant fish, sergeant major fish, something like that.'

‘They're tiger fish,' the American said, cupping a hefty zoom lens. ‘Fellow I met in Phuket told me.'

Paul caught their tour guide eavesdropping on the exchange, a wry smile on her face. He waved her over.

‘You settle this,' he said. ‘These fish hovering around the boat, what are they called?'

‘
Takrapkhiaolueang
,' she said, without missing a beat.

‘English,' the American said. ‘In English.'

‘
Takrap
…' She splayed her fingers and placed one hand over the other. ‘It's what we cook on.'

‘A grate or grill?' Paul suggested.

‘
Ka
,' the girl nodded. ‘And
khiao lueang
means green and yellow.'

‘There you go, mate, we were both wrong,' Paul said. ‘They're called yellow-green grate fish.'

The guide's smile revealed a charming gap between her two front teeth. Paul held up his camera. ‘Can I take your photo?'

She nodded but to Paul's disappointment closed her mouth before he could release the shutter.

It was one of two photos of Pla he'd brought with him, her serious face against the rugged island background. The other was taken later in the day at Monkey Beach, on Phi Phi Don's west coast. Pla had been enthusiastic about the snorkelling at Monkey Beach but not keen on its other tourist attraction: handfeeding the macaques that gave the beach its name. As the tour boats pulled in, the monkeys swarmed onto the sand from the surrounding jungle. Pla pursed her lips and shook her head as all the other tour guides waded to the beach and doled out food to the tourists.

‘For what it's worth, I don't like it either,' Paul said.

Pla looked surprised to find she was not alone on the boat. She raised an eyebrow. ‘
Jing reu
?'

Paul's Thai was limited but he knew the phase could mean either ‘really?' or ‘bullshit', depending on the context.

‘
Jing jing
,' he said, the Thai equivalent of ‘really truly'.

Excited childish shrieks drew their attention back to the beach, where the monkeys were snatching bananas, bread and packets of sweet biscuits out of people's hands.

‘My colleagues say it makes the tourists happy, and happy tourists give better tips. But if tourists are always feeding the monkeys, the monkeys will forget how to feed themselves. And then how will they eat if the tourists don't come anymore?'

‘Not to mention some of that food can make them sick,' Paul murmured.

‘I worry the Thai people are the same-same like these monkeys.' Pla's eyes stayed fixed on the beach. ‘We take the money farang tourists feed us, but we forget how to feed ourselves. What happens when we destroy the beautiful nature and the tourists don't want to come anymore?'

Paul inched towards his daypack for a pen, keen to take down Pla's words before he forgot them. He could use her comparison between the overfed monkeys and the Thais in the tourism industry in an article for the TEDO magazine.

She turned around and Paul felt as if he'd been caught stealing.

‘What's your name?' she asked.

Paul had chosen not to use his real name since arriving in Thailand. The Thais couldn't pronounce words ending in L, so it came out as ‘Porn' and no way was he going by Porn, even if it meant something completely different in their language. So he dusted off a schoolboy nickname derived from his initials. Paul O'Donnell. Pod.

‘Pod,' Pla repeated. ‘That's really your name?'

‘Actually, it's Paul. My nickname's Pod.'

She frowned. ‘Careful how you say it. Too short and it sounds like the word meaning to tell lies. Better to make it long.
Pord
.'

‘Pord?' It didn't exactly roll off the tongue. ‘What does it mean?'

She put one hand to her heart. ‘It means lungs.'

‘If it's a choice between Mister Liar and Mister Lungs, I think I prefer Porn.'

‘Much better.'

She was so sincere, Paul had to laugh, despite realising his colleagues in Bangkok had let him go for months calling himself ‘Mister Liar' in Thai.

‘I don't want to feed the monkeys. But I'd like a shot with the beach in the background. Would you mind?'

‘You want me to take a picture of you?'

‘Actually, I was hoping I could take another picture of you.'

This time he caught her gap-toothed smile on film.

They'd muted the colours at the photo-processing lab. Paul lacked the vocabulary to ask them not to. They'd made Pla's skin look whiter, the way Thai people liked it. Pla later taught him to ask for
si thammachaat
—natural colours—so his photos didn't look washed out. Too late in this case. Pla looked like a faded memory.

Ever since the phone call from Jayne Keeney, Paul had avoided dealing with the possibility that Pla's work on the power plant—
his
work—might be implicated in her death. But with twelve hours to kill on the bus from Bangkok to Krabi, he couldn't put off thinking about it any longer. He placed the photos on the spare seat beside him and stared at them, willing Pla to come to life and explain to him what the hell had happened.

He recalled the small museum she'd taken him to, which housed prehistoric human remains found during an excavation of a mine site where the power plant was to be developed. According to the exhibit label, the discovery of the 37-million-year-old
manut borarn
fossils lent weight to the controversial theory that humans evolved simultaneously in different parts of the world. The idea that Thai people might be a breed of their own somehow made Paul feel better about how little he seemed to understand them and what really went on in their country.

He turned from Pla's photos to the window, his reflection superimposed on the moving landscape. His face was sluggish with grief even the tinted glass could not disguise, his blue eyes bloodshot and swollen, hair standing on end, two days' stubble on his cheeks.

Paul had invited Pla to participate in the consultation process. He was responsible for her involvement. Had she unearthed something that placed her in danger? The last time they'd talked, she'd said something about a story she was following. But Paul wasn't paying attention, too distracted composing excuses for postponing his trip.

Tears stung his eyes, turning the landscape into a blur. He turned away from the window.

35

They reached Neua Khlong just after eight on Wednesday morning. The busy commercial town was built around a Chinese pagoda with a name—Umm Jingjui Johsugong—only someone like Rajiv could remember. The twelve-storey technicolour pagoda with curlicue finials rose above the surrounding dirt roads, terracotta tiles and corrugated iron like an exotic plant sprouting from a junkyard.

Charoen Sand and Gravel Supplies was situated on the edge of town, a broad gravel driveway leading to a compound where buildings and vehicles jostled for space. A muster of labourers, dark skin glistening with sweat in the early morning heat, shovelled gravel into the tray of a truck parked in the yard.

Along the right boundary were sheds, an ablution block and a larger version of the huts they'd seen in Pakasai village, facilities for the workers, judging from the motorbikes and bicycles parked nearby. The left side of the compound was occupied by a pale yellow, single-storey house with a sign on the door listing office hours; Jayne recalled the Ban Pakasai headman saying Bapit slept close to his money.

Her knock was answered by a young woman wearing a beige twin-set that made her look like a stewardess on a discount airline. The woman opened the door but did not invite them in.

‘
Sawadee ka di chan
. I wonder if I might meet with Khun Bapit.'

The woman sniffed. ‘Do you have an appointment?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘Would you like to make an appointment?'

‘Ah. We were hoping Khun Bapit was free to meet with us now. We've come a long way to see him.'

‘I'll need to check the appointment calendar—' she began.

‘It's okay, Khun Siri,' a voice said from inside.

A gaunt man with Chinese features appeared in the doorway as his secretary, Siri, faded from view. He peered at them over the top of gold-rimmed glasses. ‘Can I help you?'

Jayne had special business cards for when circumstances called for a less-is-more approach. Name, phone number and the title ‘Consultant'. She handed one to Bapit.

‘I've come in relation to the power plant project,' she said. ‘I've been engaged by the company to monitor the progress of the public relations strategy.'

‘I see.' Bapit looked at her name card and ran his fingers through hair that was glossy and black on top, silvery-white at the roots. ‘Please come in, Khun Jayne.'

They passed through a foyer that doubled as reception, where the po-faced secretary, Siri, sat at a computer, and entered an office-cum-living-room. Rajiv stationed himself just inside the door.

Bapit offered Jayne a couch of dark wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, taking a matching throne for himself—furniture so uncomfortable Jayne suspected it was designed expressly to expedite business dealings. An air conditioner blew an arctic wind above their heads.

‘Your colleague won't join us?' Bapit nodded towards Rajiv.

‘He's security,' Jayne said.

‘Security?'

‘We'll get to that.' Jayne took a notebook and pen from her bag. ‘As I explained I'm here to monitor the PR strategy. I understand, Khun Bapit, you have supported the power plant since its inception.'

‘Yes.' He gestured with Jayne's business card towards Rajiv. ‘I'm surprised I wasn't briefed on your visit.'

‘It was the company's wish that I conduct what they call a spot check,' Jayne said. ‘A random investigation of what's actually happening on the ground, rather than only what people might want the company to see. Briefing anyone on my visit would defeat the purpose.'

‘I see.'

Siri appeared with a tray and unloaded a pot of tea, two small ceramic cups and a plate bearing two green mangoes and a mound of chilli salt. Bapit let her pour the tea but waved her away before she could demonstrate her fruit-cutting skills. She left the blade of her small paring knife pointed at Jayne, who decided not to take it personally.

‘As an early supporter of the project, your opinions are particularly valuable,' she continued. ‘How would you characterise current attitudes towards the project among villagers closest to the site?'

Bapit puffed out his chest, which, being such a thin man, made him look like a cobra. ‘I believe the villagers are finally starting to appreciate the opportunities the power plant will bring them.'

‘Is that your opinion, or do you have evidence of this?' Jayne asked.

‘I attended the most recent round of consultation meetings in Ban Pakasai, Ban Huay Sok and Ban Laem Kruad, and I heard how the villagers spoke about the project. Sure, they had their concerns in the past. But the experts have listened to their problems and come up with solutions every time. To be honest, I think the company has been very generous. Almost excessively so.'

They should put this guy on the company's PR payroll, Jayne thought.

‘Are the villagers along Khlong Pakasai concerned at all about the transportation of oil by barge along the canal?'

‘Yes, but they understand the company is investigating a pipeline option.'

She pretended to take notes. ‘And you don't detect any other problems in the villages at this time?'

‘Not at all,' Bapit said. ‘The project remains on schedule, right? The contracts are…?'

‘Outside my terms of reference,' she said. ‘I'm only qualified to talk about the public relations aspect.'

Bapit's jaw tightened.

‘But I've no reason to believe there are any delays,' she added.

He let out his breath. ‘That's good news.'

‘So, you haven't noticed any fallout from the death of the young woman—let me check her name…' Jayne pretended to rifle through her papers. ‘Chanida Manakit, known as Pla.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘I understand Nang Pla assisted many villagers in their negotiations with the company over the power plant. There's concern her death will alarm people if it's linked in any way to her role on the project.'

‘But she died in a drowning accident,' Bapit said.

‘Yes, but you know how village gossip is.' Jayne paused to sip her Chinese tea, the aroma like cut grass. ‘What about the death of the flatmate, Khun Suthita? Or the farang woman whose body was found in the Krabi River? No one's suggested any links to the power plant project?'

The colour seemed to drain from Bapit's face. ‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘The company wants to know if word on the street is linking these deaths to the project.'

‘Absolutely not,' Bapit said.

‘So do you know who killed these women, Khun Bapit?' Jayne said.

At that moment, a young man burst into the room. Built like a weightlifter and wearing a red satin biker jacket, he looked like he'd slept rough.

The blood rose in Jayne's face. She glanced at Rajiv. His face remained impassive behind his sunglasses, but his bobbing Adam's apple told her he'd reached the same conclusion. The man in the red satin biker jacket was Sigrid's attacker.