Everyone Burns (10 page)

“I don’t like. Let him wait, the bloody Northern Neanderthal.”

“He’s not so bad. I think he’s quite shy really.
Probably hiding his sensitivity underneath that brusque exterior.”

“Thank you, Sigmund Freud.”

I hung up and carefully examined the sala from top to bottom. I was inspecting the underside of the table when the lady of the house arrived accompanied by a tray-carrying maid. Kat raised a quizzical eyebrow but only said, “Refreshments, as promised, Mr. Braddock. Just set the tray down, Sahli, I will pour.”

After the maid had left, my hostess said, “What were you just doing, David?”

“Checking for hidden microphones.”

“You are joking, of course.”

“Not really, no.”

She poured the tea and handed me a cup. “What is going on?”

“Have you received any strange phone calls recently, Kat?”

“No.”

“Or anonymous letters?”

“No. Why?”

“I have.”

“Really,” she said, looking amused. “Another occupational hazard?”

“It’s not funny.”

“What do these anonymous letters say?”

“They’re very vague. They might be about you.”

“How flattering.”

“Are you going to take me seriously at all today?”

“David,
tirak
, when I find you crawling around on all fours in my garden looking for hidden microphones, that is somewhat difficult.” She took an elegant sip of tea. “Do you imagine my husband has lured you here to eavesdrop on our conversation? To find out whether we have been doing something inappropriate together?” she asked sardonically.

“It’s possible. Has he been acting at all weird lately?”

“I can only think of one person I’ve seen recently who was acting weird,” she chuckled.

“Well, I’ve been having a weird time,” I huffed. “First I start getting anonymous letters then the Chief drags me into an ‘unofficial’ murder investigation. Finally, I discover you, of all people, are translating the reports on the murders. Doesn’t that all strike you as a little odd?”

“All right, I’ll be serious for a minute,” Kat said. “Tell me what these anonymous letters say.”

I told her. She was unimpressed.

“It sounds more like a prank to me. Your problem is you have a guilty conscience.”

“So you don’t think your husband knows about us,” I pressed. “You haven’t noticed anything different in his behaviour?”

“On the contrary,” she replied, “recently his moods have been quite erratic. But that has nothing to do with you and me. It’s this murder business. Deng is a very proud man and his standing in the Royal Thai Police is being undermined by this team from Surat Thani. He is under a lot of pressure,” she said earnestly. “I am worried about him.”

It caught me by surprise to hear Kat referring to the Chief fondly as ‘Deng’.

“I need a cigarette,” I said. “Do you mind?”

“You know I think it’s a filthy habit, David. But if you must.”

I lit up.

As if reading my thoughts, Kat said, “I know the two of you have a tense relationship, and I expect he’s blackmailed you somehow into helping him. My husband is a difficult man, but he is my
husband
.”

I hadn’t seen this loyal side of her before, probably because I hadn’t chosen to. When you’re in bed with a beautiful woman, the last thing you want to dwell on is her relations with her pot-bellied husband.

“Is that why you agreed to do the translation?”

“It’s one of the reasons.”

“What are the others?”

“Boredom,” she said. She gave me a girlish smile. “And once I knew who it was I was doing the translation
for
, well, that gave the job an added attraction.”

“Now
I’m
flattered.”

“I haven’t seen you for a while. Plus you do still have a special place in my affections,” she said teasingly, rubbing a foot against my leg. “You are the only man I’ve ever been unfaithful with.”

I gave her an old-fashioned look and she laughed.

“Well,
nearly
the only man. Anyway, it’s good to do something useful for a change. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m only good for sitting in salons having my nails done.”

“I’m still having trouble equating the Kat Charoenkul I know with the one who sits in a study working on police files.
Something
about you has changed, and I don’t just mean your hairstyle. Which is very fetching, by the way.”

She shrugged. “You’ll work it out. You are a detective, after all. Do you want more tea?”

“No thanks. I have to go. So the files will be with me tomorrow?”

“Without fail,” she said, giving a mock salute.

“Will you bring them over, or will it be one of the Chief’s men?”

“Would you like me to?”

“If you have the time. I’ll try to control myself.”

“I hope you won’t try too hard.”

On the drive back to my office, I reflected on Kat’s situation.
She had hitched her hopes to Charoenkul’s star, which in the early days of their marriage must have been burning bright. His luminous career was now in danger of transforming into a black hole. As an intelligent and cultured woman, Kat must have seen Samui as a temporary stop-over before elevation to the brighter lights of Bangkok. I imagined she felt like a caged animal, frustrated and confined on this small island. Small wonder she’d been propelled into the arms of a smooth-talking farang. I considered for the first time how much she personally had invested in her husband’s elusive promotion. It wasn’t even as though she had any children by way of consolation. Ironically, Papa Doc was not a
papa
.

I also realised that my own situation
here bears some sad parallels to Kat’s. Leaving aside Claire, the Old Monk, and Charlie Rorabaugh of Bophut Jazz, my only sources of sophisticated conversation are the Police Chief and his wife; both of whom have been exposed to Western education.

Arriving back at the office in sombre mood, I asked Da to ring
Wong’s Home Delivery for some Chinese noodles to calm my rumbling stomach. I declined to call back Sinclair in spite of her obvious disapproval, and locked myself away in the West Office to jot down some thoughts and to cruise the internet for information on corpses, crime scenes and criminal psychology.

*       *       *       *       *

That was hours ago.

Da has long since gone, and the remnants of Wong’s noodles sit cold and unappetising in the bin under my desk. The room smells like a cocktail of grease and cigarette butts with a dash of BO and Bells.

Nice.

I am no wiser, but much better informed about corpses, crime scenes and criminal psychology. I really should go home.

But before I do, I need a fix of Chinese wisdom. I unwrap the fortune-cookie that I’ve been saving and crack it open.

The slip of paper inside
says

Like many Western men who settle in Thailand, you have an addiction to risk, questionable morals and a desire to have sex with as many women as possible; although in your case you prefer married ones.

Naw, I’m just messing around. It actually says

Be prepared. Something big is coming your way.

If fortune-cookies were really that accurate the world’s policemen, social workers and psychiatrists would all be redundant. And so would I.

4

“Words are fools

Who follow blindly once they get a lead.

But thoughts are kingfishers that haunt the pools

Of quiet”

Siegfried Sass
oon, Limitations

When I throw my straw hat at the hat rack and it actually stays on the peg, I feel a disproportionate rush of satisfaction. But this is snuffed out almost instantly when I see Da glowering at me from behind her desk.

“
Khun David,” she says in the strict tones of an experienced dominatrix, “The West Office smells like a smoky alcoholic abattoir this morning. It is disgusting. I’ve had to open all the windows. You cannot use it for clients today.”

“Do I have any Western clients today?” I ask superciliously.

“You
should
have.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean are you going to ring Mr. Sinclair now?”

What is it with bloody Sinclair?
Wayan was frosty with me over breakfast too. She’d bumped into the Geordie the previous day outside the school and he’d been moaning that I hadn’t called back. The normally-diplomatic Wayan had even been tempted to confess that my ‘brilliant deductions’ about his son were just a sly confidence trick. Of course she hadn’t – she’s far too nice to drop me in it – but her displeasure made for an uncomfortable orange juice and muesli.

“Later,” I say.

“I think that’s very unprofessional, if you want my opinion.”

“I don’t.” I shake my head. “What is this strange fascination you and Wayan have with this charmless oik?”

“He’s shy and kind of vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable my arse.”

“Admittedly he doesn’t have your sophisticated turn of phrase,” she smiles acidly, “but he doesn’t stand drooling over my breasts either.”

Obviously Da and Wayan like him, and just as obviously I don’t. I don’t know why I don’t, but I just don’t.

“Give me his number,” I say with bad grace.

I press the numbers on her desk phone, take a deep breath, and slide into my concerned professional voice. After a few rings he picks up.

“Mr. Sinclair? David Braddock here. I’m sorry I’ve not called back sooner.”

To my surprise, he sounds happy to hear from me. I’d expected irritation, at the very least. I offer an appointment today, but he’s too busy. Da mouths
be nice
, so I make an effort.

“Look, um, Mr
. Sinclair,” I say, knowing I’ll regret the gesture I’m about to make, “tomorrow’s Saturday. I don’t normally meet clients at weekends, but I feel I’ve not given you much of a service so far. Would you like to come in tomorrow? Or I can come to you if it’s awkward for you to come here.”

“Could you come to me?” he says. “I have to stay in tomorrow morning, I’ve got a bloke coming about my trees. Shall we say around
eleven o’clock?”

“Fine. Give me your address.”

I jot it down and end the conversation. I replace the receiver and squint resentfully at Da. “Now I’m doing house calls. Happy?”

“Very. And that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She thaws. “Go through and I’ll make you a coffee. You’ve got plenty of time before your appointment. You’re in much earlier than I expected.”

“Well, I was missing you.”

“No, you’re here because Wayan was making you feel guilty about Mr
. Sinclair, and you couldn’t wait to get out of the house.”

“Wayan rang you?” I say, appalled at this female conspiracy.

She nods.

“Unbelievable.”

Da kisses my cheek fondly. “I’ll get your coffee,” she says.

I plonk myself down in the East Office with the English language newspaper and
look at the front page.

Thoughts of Sinclair and the Monstrous Regiment of Women are banished from my mind as I read the headline
Dutch Tourist Found Murdered in Lamai
. While the content of the article is not so lurid as Charoenkul had feared, there is still more than enough to give the Chief apoplexy. The method of killing and the torching of the body are not mentioned, but the murder is described as ‘brutal’ and the coconut grove crime scene is identified. Worse for Papa Doc, there is a large flattering colour photograph of Katchai, who is named as the police officer heading up the investigation. His quoted words infer that the presence of his special team on the island is due to the investigation being beyond the expertise of the local boys. There is the usual puff that ‘the full resources of the Royal Thai Police will be deployed to bring the perpetrator to justice’, along with reassurances that Samui is a safe destination for tourists. It strikes me as naïve to imply that the murder is an isolated occurrence, even if it is good copy for the hotel trade. Katchai has already put himself in the same boat as the Chief: one with leaks in it. There is not the slightest hint about the first murder. Is the Royal Thai Police digging itself a deeper hole in which to bury some of its officers’ careers? As I read on, I see there is some studied outrage from the journalist that such an event could occur here, but (as yet) no criticism of the law enforcement body. The article concludes with the helpful advice to ‘be vigilant’, and an appeal from Katchai for anyone with information to come forward.

I skim through the rest of the paper but there is no editorial on the incident.

Da puts down my coffee and asks if I’ve seen the headline. She remarks on what sort of a world she is bringing her baby into, and I pat her bump affectionately. As she waddles out, my cell phone rings. The display tells me it’s Charoenkul.

“Have you seen the newspapers?” asks the annoyed Chief.

“Only the
Island Daily
.”

“The others are just as bad.”

“At least they’ve omitted the grisly details. It might be a marketing boost for petrol sales, but it’s better not to put ideas into any impressionable heads. As a farang I have a vested interest in there being no more human bonfires.”

“Quite,” he says without a trace of concern.

I’m very tempted to ask him how his golf game went, but I bite my tongue. I’m pretty sure that given his state of mind his swing would have been all over the place. But there is no sense at this point in pouring trouble on oiled waters. Plus I’m not feeling especially brave today as far as the Chief is concerned. There is still the little matter of his wife to be considered.

“The files will be with you after lunch. Get working on them.”

I’m about to tell him I have other things to do and a living to make, but he’s already rung off.

I wonder whether Kat will bring in the files personally. Then I wish I’d put on a nicer shirt. Then I think about why I wish I’d put on a nicer shirt. Then I realise why I wish I’d put on a nicer shirt. And why I’m preening myself in the washroom. I press my forehead against the mirror and murmur an obscenity to myself. Next I take a good look at the idiot in the mirror. He shakes his head at me in sad disbelief, then splashes his face with cold water and tells me to get a grip.

I take his advice, put away the newspaper and wipe my mind clear of Police Chiefs’ wives, anonymous letters and murder cases. I have a real live paying customer arriving in about half an hour, and I need to compose myself.

I return my empty coffee cup to Da and enquire about the client.

Da puts aside her baby magazine and consults the appointment book.

“Mr
. Prasert Promsai,” she replies. “He didn’t say why he wanted to see you. He’s a new client.”

“Actually Da,” I say mysteriously, heading back into the office
and pausing at the threshold for dramatic effect, “he isn’t.” I close the door.

I reacquaint myself with Prasert Promsai’s case notes. Far from being a new client, in fact he is one of my very first clients; preceding the arrival of Da at
the David Braddock Agency. Although it is quite some time since I last saw him in a professional capacity, he attends the same temple as I do, and we wai each other on a regular basis.

Awaiting his arrival I sit cross-legged in the armchair, close my eyes and give attention to my breathing. By the time Da knocks on the door of the East Office I am the personification of calm.

Prasert Promsai and I greet each other in the traditional Thai manner. It is some weeks since I last saw him at the temple and he looks tired. He is a big man for a Thai, which is just as well because in the early days of his construction business he was the third man in the trench. He once told me that he is descended from Genghis Khan, and has the blue bruise on his buttocks to prove it. Of course if this urban legend of the bruise were true, then the Mongolian Conqueror must have impregnated a goodly proportion of the females of his Asian Empire and, from what I have read, genetics and evolutionary theory are against it. But like all good fairy stories, it persists.

There is, however, something decidedly un-Thai about my old client, even if there is no doubt about his devout Buddhism.
Of the three Buddhist fires, his primary weakness is the fire of anger. When he first came to me his fiery temper was in danger of destroying his life. His short fuse had alienated his wife and most of his family, and was threatening to engulf his burgeoning business, in spite of the fact that he was known as the most honest and reliable builder on the island. For a proud Thai man to turn to a foreign counsellor about such a personal issue shows how desperate he had become, but over several sessions we worked through his anger management problem, and he learned techniques to overcome it. His marriage had survived and his business had continued to prosper. The last appointment with me had been an emotional one, and we had embraced unashamedly dewy-eyed at its conclusion.

I had expected him to keep our sessions private, but he had spread the good word about my little office to friends and colleagues at
Wat Son and beyond, and accordingly many new Thai clients had beaten a path to me. In many ways my counselling business owes a big debt to Prasert, although quite why Samui islanders entrust their emotional well-being to the David Braddock Agency still remains a mystery to me. It seems a very un-Thai thing to do. I must ask the Old Monk about it sometime, if I can catch him in the right mood.

“
Khun David.”

“
Khun Prasert.”

“It is good to see you,” he says.

We usually converse in Thai although his English is good, especially when he is waxing lyrical on columns, support beams, floating rafts and bathroom fittings.

“It is also good to see you, old friend, although I cannot help wishing it was at the temple and not in my office.”

He nods sadly. “Yes, I need to call on your good services again.”

“Tell me about it.”

He takes a deep breath, and begins. “Since I last saw you here I have, as you know, learned how to control my bad temper. I must admit I have had the occasional lapse, but generally I can stay calm and keep my demon in check. However, lately I have felt a growing of the fire in me and I worry that my anger will once more explode and consume those that are dearest to me. I have exhausted the techniques you gave me without effect.”

“Speaking of exhausted, you don’t look as though you’re sleeping.”

“I’m not. When I do sleep my mind is not at rest. I’m sure I’m having bad dreams, but I can never remember them when I wake up. I go to the temple and make offerings, but nothing changes. My brain is so full of turmoil I cannot even meditate properly.”

“If you’ve talked to Buddha and he can’t help, what makes you think I can?” I ask with a smile.

“Buddha has helped,” he says. “He told me to talk to you.”

Not for the first time, this straightforward man makes me feel humble. I pour us both a glass of water from the jug Da has brought in. I think about Prasert’s reference to his inner demon, and Yai’s son’s demon, and Wayan’s offerings to appease the demonic spirits. To the average Western mind this is the mumbo-jumbo of the uncivilised, but I know that is simply labelling. The Freudian psychologist’s
Ego
and
Id
are not so different to the idea of internal devils, and for the split personality, the depressive, the schizophrenic, and for a host of others tormented by the contents of their minds, the fears are just as concrete as if they possessed horns and teeth and bloody claws.

I do not say any of this to my client, however. Instead I say, “Prasert, you talk of the demon inside you. But we both know it is your own pain and apprehension that needs to be addressed. It is part of you, not some separate supernatural being that haunts you.”

“Buddha said that too.”

“Well I’m relieved Buddha and I are on the same page. Tell me what is happening to disturb you.”

“It is my brother,” he says, and I see the hurt in his eyes. “I have not spoken to you before about my brother Nikom, so I need to explain some things.” He drinks some water then replaces the glass on the table, thinking how to begin. I remain silent.

“My brother is twelve years younger than me. My family’s circumstances were such that I had to care for him when he was young, and to look out for him when he was older. He was always getting into trouble: fights, drinking, unsuitable women. But his gambling was the worst. As you know gambling is one of the curses of my country, and many families have been impoverished or ruined by it. Our father was also a gambler.”