The Solitary Man (23 page)

She opened her suitcase and wondered what to wear. Trousers or a dress? Skirt and top? A dress would be best, she decided. She'd seen Thai men in the streets staring at her breasts and knew that she had a better figure than most Thai women. They might have great skin and glossy black hair, but there was no way they could compete with good old British breasts. She picked up a blue linen dress and held it against herself, then dismissed it for being too wrinkled. It made her look good but she didn't have time to get it pressed. She took out a yellow cotton dress, cut to just above her knees. Perfect, she decided. Demure enough at the top so that it only suggested what lay beneath, but short enough to show off her legs, her second-best feature. She slipped on the dress and admired herself in the mirror. She had no doubt that between her legs and her breasts, she'd beat the guy down to a sensible price for whatever information he had.

She turned her back on the mirror and looked over her shoulder. 'Not bad for a thirty-eight-year-old,' she said to herself, then grinned at her reflection. She put her notebook and pen in her handbag and went downstairs.

A bellboy in a red jacket and white pants and wearing a peaked cap held the door open for her. In front of the glass doors was a blue taxi.

The driver, a middle-aged man with a large black mole on his chin, looked at her expectantly. She raised her eyebrows and he nodded. 'Miss Jennifer?' he said.

'That's me,' she said. 'Where are we going?' she asked the driver as he put the car in gear.

'No English,' he said gruffly as he joined the traffic which was crawling along outside the hotel.

The air-conditioner was on its lowest setting and the atmosphere was stifling. She pointed over the driver's shoulder at the air-conditioner control. 'Colder,' she pleaded. The driver nodded and increased the setting.

They turned left at a main intersection and drove for thirty minutes, during which time Jennifer estimated they covered perhaps two miles. The whole city appeared to be gridlocked. The only vehicles that made any progress were the motorcycles that weaved in and out of the cars. Virtually without exception the drivers of the cars left enough room for the motorcycles to pass by, and the thoughtfulness was frequently acknowledged with nods and smiles.

They turned off the main road into a single-lane street, devoid of traffic, and then turned again and rattled along a narrow alleyway. Suddenly the taxi stopped. Jennifer looked around anxiously. The alley was gloomy and strewn with rubbish. There was nobody around.

'Are we here?' Jennifer asked. The driver shook his head. Jennifer couldn't tell whether or not he understood her. 'Is this it?' she asked. Before the driver could reply the passenger door opened. 'I'm still using this cab,' she protested, but a large Thai man slipped in to sit beside her.

'I am the man you have come to see,' said the man. 'My name is Bird.'

He was broad shouldered and had thick forearms as if he lifted weights a lot. Most of the Thais Jennifer had seen were short and slight; this man wouldn't have looked out of place in a London gym. He had a thick neck around which he wore a gold chain that appeared to be almost tight enough to choke him, as though he'd been wearing it since he was a child.

Jennifer held out her hand. 'Jennifer Leigh,' she said. 'But THE SOLITARY MAN 183 you know that already.' They shook. His hand was huge and engulfed hers entirely, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. He wore several large gold rings, and a diamond-studded gold Rolex. He was, Jennifer realised with an electric jolt, very attractive. As he turned his head she saw that he had a thin scar that ran from his left ear to the side of his nose.

Bird spoke to the driver in Thai and the car drove off. 'I am sorry to be so secretive,' said Bird. 'You will understand later. When I've told you what I know.'

'And what do you know?' Jennifer asked.

'Not here,' said Bird.

The taxi drove along to the end of the alley and turned on to a street. By now Jennifer was totally disorientated. 'How did you t know where to find me? How did you know who I was?'

'I heard that you were asking questions about Warren Hastings.'

'But so are the police. Why did you come to me?'

'The police don't pay as much as newspapers. Certainly not as much as British newspapers. But please, can we talk later?' He folded his arms across his chest.

They drove in silence. The taxi had to wait ten minutes before turning off the street and on to a four-lane highway. Despite the wider road, traffic was still moving at a snail's pace.

'Where are we going?' she asked. It had been more than an hour since she'd left the hotel.

'Not far.'

Flecks of rain peppered the windscreen and the driver switched on the wipers. The shower swiftly became a downpour and even on full power the wipers were unable to cope with the cascade of water. The traffic came to a standstill.

'Is it always like this?' Jennifer asked.

'It's the monsoon season,' said Bird.

'How long does it go on for?'

Bird shrugged and pulled a face. 'Until it stops,' he said. His face was impassive and Jennifer had no way of telling if he was joking or not. She smiled anyway.

The traffic began to move and the taxi turned off the main road. They made a series of turns, seemingly at random, and Jennifer 184 STEPHEN LEATHER had the distinct impression that the driver was deliberately trying to confuse his route. Eventually they stopped in front of a bar with black tinted windows.

'We are here,' said Bird. The driver pulled an umbrella from under the front passenger seat and handed it to Bird. They climbed out of the taxi and Bird used the umbrella to shelter them both.

The bar seemed to be closed and Bird rapped the door with his knuckles. They heard footsteps, and the sound of a key being turned and bolts being drawn back, then the door opened a fraction. Bird said something in Thai and the door opened further. Behind them, the taxi pulled away from the kerb and drove off into the rain.

Bird motioned for Jennifer to go first. Jennifer was suddenly apprehensive. She didn't know Bird, she had no idea where she was, or what she was getting in to. She suddenly remembered that she hadn't told the office where she was going. Bird smiled. It was an honest and open smile. Jennifer considered herself a good judge of character, and she felt that she could trust him. She returned the smile and stepped across the threshold, her misgivings forgotten. It was dark inside and it took her eyes several seconds to get used to the gloom. To the left was a line of booths, all empty. To the right, a scattering of Formica tables and chairs, also deserted. There were several television sets suspended from the ceiling and a small podium with banks of speakers on either side. The door closed behind her and she jumped. The man who'd opened the door for them was small and had a withered arm that he kept pressed close to his chest as if it was hanging in an invisible sing. He slipped past her and went over to a well-stocked bar where a barman in a stained sweatshirt was half-heartedly polishing a glass.

Bird shook the umbrella and slotted it into a stand by the door. He waved Jennifer over to one of the booths. 'Please sit,' he said.

Jennifer looked at her watch pointedly. 'I can't stay long,' she said.

'I understand,' he said pleasantly. 'But you can surely have a drink while I talk, yes?'

He seemed genuinely eager to please and Jennifer nodded. 'Gin and tonic,' she said. 'Ice and lemon if you've got it.'

Bird spoke to the barman in Thai and joined Jennifer in the booth. Jennifer was facing the door and she noticed that the door had been bolted. She swallowed as the feeling of apprehension returned.

Bird turned to see what she was looking at, then smiled reassuringly. 'For privacy,' he said, as if reading her mind.

'Sure,' she said, more confidently than she felt. 'So, whatjiave you got to tell me?'

'It's about Warren Hastings,' said Bird, leaning forward conspiratorially. 'He's not who he says he is.'

Jennifer leaned forward, too, intrigued. 'Yes?'

Bird nodded. 'Warren Hastings isn't his real name.'

Jennifer took her notebook and pad out of her handbag and flicked through to an empty page. 'And his real name is . . .' she said, urging Bird on.

The man with the withered arm returned, balancing a tray with his good hand. He put Jennifer's drink down in front of her and gave Bird a bottle of Singha beer. Bird raised the bottle in salute. 'Cheers,' he said, then more slowly added, 'Bottoms up,' as if he was unsure how to pronounce the phrase.

'Cheers,' said Jennifer, and she clinked her glass against his bottle. It was hot and airless in the small bar and Jennifer drank gratefully. Bird watched her over the top of his bottle.

Jennifer put down her glass. 'What is his real name?' she asked.

Bird smiled thinly. 'I think that is information you should pay for.'

'Do you have proof?'

Bird nodded. 'Yes. I have proof.'

'Documents? Photographs? What exactly do you have? My newspaper won't pay for rumour or innuendo.'

Bird picked up his bottle again. He waited for her to lift her glass, then toasted her. 'Cheers,' he said.

'Cheers,' she said. They both drank. Jennifer was beginning to feel light headed. There was a tumbler full of paper napkins on the table and she pulled one out and wiped her forehead.

'Are you feeling all right?' Bird asked.

'Just a bit hot,' she said. Her hands were sweating and she was having trouble keeping a grip on her pen.

'You are very pretty,' he said.

'What?' she said, confused by the sudden change of subject.

Bird reached over and stroked the back of her wrist. 'You're a very sexy farang,' he said, grinning. There was something unpleasant about the smile, she realised. Something predatory, a wickedness that hadn't been there before. She was suddenly afraid and pulled her hand away.

'Let's stick to the Hastings business,' she said.

'I think that business is now over,' he said. She saw him look over her shoulder and she turned quickly. Her head swam and she fought back a feeling of nausea. As her eyes focused she saw that two more men had joined the barman. They stood leaning against the bar, hands in their pockets. The man with the withered arm was sitting on the podium, staring at her. Jennifer shivered. She could barely keep her eyes open.

'We're going to have so much fun with you,' said Bird, reaching for her hand again.

Jennifer tried to get to her feet but the effort was too much for her and she slumped forward, her arm sweeping her glass from the table. She heard it shatter on the floor and then she passed out.

THE PAIN SHAFTED THROUGH Ray Harrigan's stomach like a lance and he grunted. 'Jesus Christ,' he said.

The Canadian looked up from his food. 'What's up?'

'Stomach cramps,' he said. He winced again and squatted down on his heels. 'Jesus, it hurts.'

The Canadian held up a spoonful of rice. 'Food poisoning, you reckon?'

Harrigan rolled on to his bed and hugged his stomach. 'I don't know, but it hurts like hell.'

The Canadian looked at his spoonful of rice for a few seconds, then he shrugged and swallowed it.

'I need a doctor,' groaned Harrigan.

'Yeah, and I need cable TV,' said the Canadian. Harrigan continued to moan so the Canadian put down his plate and went over to him. There were beads of sweat on Harrigan's forehead and his hair was damp. 'You're burning up,' said the Canadian.

'Is that a professional opinion?' Harrigan grunted. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck.' He drew his knees up against his chest into the fetal position. He began to breathe in short, sharp gasps like a weightlifter preparing to lift. 'You've got to give me something,' said Harrigan.

'I haven't got anything,' said the Canadian.

Harrigan grunted. The pain seemed to be getting worse, though it was already more than he could bear. 'You have to give me something.'

'Ray, I keep telling you, I haven't got any medicine.'

'What about your smack? That'll kill the pain, won't it?'

'You want heroin?'

'I can smoke it, you said. It's a painkiller, right?'

The Canadian rubbed the back of his neck. 'Sure.'

'So I'm in pain.' He moaned and shook his head from side to side as if to emphasise the point.

'I can see that, Ray. But you can't smoke it. I haven't got any foil.'

'What? What's that got to do with it?'

'You have to put it on a piece of foil, and then hold it over a flame. That's how you get the smoke.' He put a hand on Harrigan's shoulder. Harrigan put his hands between his legs and bit down on his lower lip as he grunted with pain. 'I'm sorry, man,' said the Canadian.

Harrigan didn't reply. His shirt was soaked and rivulets of sweat dripped down on to his mat.

'Look, Ray. If you want, I can, you know, give you some smack.'

'You said . . .'

'You can inject. I've got a clean needle. Never been used. Pristine.'

'I hate needles,' said Harrigan through clenched teeth.

'Yeah. You said.'

Harrigan rolled over so that he was facing away from the Canadian. He began to shiver uncontrollably. 'Okay,' he said eventually.

'Okay what?'

'Don't fuck me around.' Harrigan's teeth began to chatter. 'Get the stuff ready.'

JENNIFER HEARD VOICES, INDISTINCT as if far away at the end of a long, long tunnel. Whispering, then laughing. She felt as if she were enveloped in a feather quilt, as if everything around her were soft and fuzzy. She swallowed and there was a funny taste in her mouth. It was hard to breathe, something was pressing down on her chest, something heavy. Something that moved. Something hard and wet forced itself between her lips. She began to choke but then suddenly she could breathe again. She was lying on her back and she tried to roll on to her side but something was preventing her. She tried to move her arms but they felt as if they'd turned to stone. There was no feeling, no response when she tried to raise them. The weight returned to press against her and she felt her legs being pushed apart.

The voices became louder but she couldn't make out what was being said. There was more laughing. She was hot. Very hot. She wanted a drink of water. Something was pounding against her, moving quickly, thumping into her groin. It didn't hurt, in fact it was quite pleasant, and Jennifer smiled to herself. She was dreaming, she realised. She was in bed, safe and warm, and she was dreaming. Her hair was over her face and she wanted to brush it away but still her hands wouldn't move. She swallowed again. There was something bitter in her mouth. Her eyelids flickered. It was light. She must have overslept. She wondered what the voices were. Maybe she'd fallen asleep with the television on. She tried to drift back to sleep, back into the dream, but the light was insistent and so were the voices. Men's voices. The pounding between her legs became faster, more frantic, and she felt something deep inside.