Everyone Burns (15 page)

“The only problem is my time and the cost. Doing a stake-out like that will be expensive, unless you’re happy for me to get one of my local boys that help me out to do it.”

“No!” he said rather too loudly and quickly for my liking. “No, I want you to do it. Personally.”

I told him my rates, but he didn’t flinch. I really wanted to say,
If it’s so easy why don’t you do it yourself?
But I didn’t want a roiling from Da and a month of burnt toast from Wayan.

However, as if he could read my thoughts, Sinclair went on, “You’re probably wondering why I don’t just do this on my own.”

“It crossed my mind.”

He looked nervous for a moment, and again dropped his gaze. “Well,” he b
egan slowly, “it’s a delicate thing, what with my partner being the lad’s uncle, and so on. If the evidence is put together by an ‘independent’ person, it’s harder to dispute. That’s why I want you to do it. You’ll have credibility, which some Thai boy working for you won’t have.”

“I see.”

I sat awhile and mulled it over. There was something decidedly odd about all this, and his arrangements were a bit too pat, but I was struggling to come up with a reason to say no. One that Da and Wayan would sign onto anyway.

Eventually I said, “I can do this, of course, but I have other cases at the moment. It would be a few days, maybe a week before I could start.”

Sinclair looked relieved. “No problem. The key time for you to be on the job, as it were, is from about 6.00pm till 11.00pm, and there’ll be no builders around then. If Kwanchai is going to take a car out, that’ll be when it happens. You don’t even need to do it every evening. If we liaise, I can tell you Kwanchai’s plans, and which evenings are the most likely ones for his shenanigans. I don’t even mind if it takes a few weeks, part-time like, as long as I get photos of him on a few different occasions.”

He sensed my hesitancy, even then, and continued, “It’s money for old rope, David. Get paid for sitting in the dark for a few hours each evening. That’s all.”

I smiled as sincerely as I could manage. “OK. But I’ll need a photograph of the nephew. Presumably you’ll let me have details of how to access your database; passwords and the like. And I don’t want to be held responsible for crashing your systems, or to be blamed for someone hacking into them.”

“Don’t worry. It’s all firewall-protected, and the data will be encrypted anyway. You’ll only have access to a small area. I don’t want you knowing how much money I make.” He laughed
a little uncertainly.

He took me into the house and provided me with a box file containing a highlighted map, system access instructions, keys to the house, and photographs of Kwanchai. He’d clearly anticipated my questions.

“I’d like to call by your office on some pretext and have a look at this guy in the flesh,” I said. “Will he be in today?”

“He’ll be around this afternoon, yes.”

“OK. I’ll be in touch.”

“Just one thing afore you go. If we need to meet up I’d rather do it here or at your house. I don’t want to go to your office in Chaweng. I can’t say why, sorry, I’d just rather not.”

I gave him my address and we shook hands. There was a distinctly guilty element to his demeanour that I couldn’t figure out. In fact there were lots of things about Sinclair that I couldn’t put my finger on. But sure as hell he wasn’t being entirely straight with me.

I’d have staked my PI’s licence on it, if I
’d had one.

*       *       *       *       *

As I left Sinclair’s house I checked my cell phone which I’d had on silent mode since last night. Two missed calls, both from local numbers, neither of which I recognised. Driving back onto the Samui Ring Road I pressed return call for the first number and a woman’s voice answered.

“Hello, David, thank you for calling back.”

“
Kat?
Is that you? This is not your usual number.”

“Never mind about that now. I need to see you.” She sounded less composed than at our last meeting.

“Of course, no problem.”

“Can I meet you at your office?”

“Sure. Say in an hour, around one o’clock?”

“Make it three o’clock.”

“OK. I’ll leave the street door open. What’s the mystery?”

“I can’t talk now. I’ll see you later.”

She rang off.

I did not like the sound of this. Whatever was coming my way in three hours’ time, it was not going to be good. I could feel my thumbs pricking.

I took a breath then called the second number. A young female voice greeted me.

“Hello, this is David Braddock,” I said in Thai. “I think you were trying to call me.”

“Wait a moment, please.” I heard some chatter and traffic buzz then the sound of a door closing and the background noise stopped.

“Hello, Mr
. Braddock, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, I was in the shop. This is Bee. My grandfather asked me to call you.” She sounded apprehensive.

“Ah, Bee, yes. Thank you for calling me. Listen, I’d be very grateful if I could meet you. There are some questions you may be able to help me with.”

“Grandfather told me all about it. I have already told the police everything I know. I do not think I can help you.”

“I know you’ve spoken to the police. Don’t worry, I’m not going to make any trouble for you. Please meet me. Wherever you like and wherever is convenient for you.”

I could feel the reluctance at the other end of the phone.

“Just to talk, that’s all.”

A sigh. Then, “OK. Tomorrow I will take some food to my grandfather. I will meet you there.”

“Thank you, Bee. What time?”

“Say four o’clock. I have to go now, sorry.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you –”

She had already gone.

*       *       *       *       *

I didn’t feel like driving home for lunch so I stopped at a convenience store for a sandwich and a warm chocolate bar to keep me going; and an instant coffee to keep me awake awhile.

I parked the jeep near Sinclair’s office in Chaweng and went inside for a brief conversation with Kwanchai about some imaginary friend of mine who would
need a car when he visited Samui next month. Normally I wouldn’t want a target to be able to recognise me, but given the circumstances of the job and my growing distrust of the Northerner, I wanted to see this guy up close. To make sure he actually existed, for one thing. And it wasn’t like he was going to spot me while I was lying in wait for him on a dark balcony.

Kwanchai was courteous and helpful, and didn’t particularly seem the rascally-type, but then the joy-riding he was suspected of hardly made him Public Enemy Number One.

Afterwards I drove to my office hoping to catch a couple of hours’ shut-eye before Kat pitched up, but there was too much static in my head, revved up by a sense of impending hubris.

So I just sat there in the East Office, waiting for Mrs. Charoenkul, while the second hand of my watch dragged itself around the face like a sleep-deprived tortoise. Einstein was exactly right about the relativity of time: when you’re enjoying yourself it whizzes by, when you’re miserable it all but stands still. Right now, I felt like the Mad Hatter at his never-ending tea-party. Although I probably looked more like the Dormouse.

Eventually I heard Kat’s heels on the stairs and went out into reception to meet her.

She looked a good deal more composed than I had expected following our earlier conversation. She was wearing designer sunglasses, a white blouse and jeans. A Gucci bag hung over her shoulder.

“Hello, Kat.”

“Hello, David.” She pushed up the sunglasses onto her hair. “Which office do you want me in?”

“The West Office has the biggest desk.”

She smiled. “Just as well I locked the street door behind me, then.”

“Seriously, the East Office is more comfortable.”

We went in and sat down.

“You look fabulous, as always,” I said.

“And you, tirak, look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Thanks. I was up half the night wandering around a certain coconut grove.”

“Poor baby.”

“Anyway, I was expecting a distraught woman with runny mascara after your earlier call. Yet here you are as cool as a cucumber and ready for the catwalk,” I protested irritably. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, David. I was a little panicky this morning. I’ve calmed down now.”

“So I see. You got me panicking too. What happened?”

She reached into her bag and took out a white envelope which she put on the table.

“This happened,” she said.

The envelope bore a local postmark and was addressed to
Mrs. K. Charoenkul
. The handwriting was unmistakable. My mouth felt suddenly dry and something hardened in my chest, like I’d had concrete poured into my lungs.

“We need to go next door,” I said peremptorily and picked up the envelope by one of its corners, holding it out in front of me like it was noxious.

We passed into the East Office where I rummaged in the filing cabinet and took out my other dusting kit.

“My, you do have a big desk in here. Useful for all sorts of purposes I should think,” said Kat in an attempt at humour.

I didn’t answer. I spread out my handkerchief and placed the envelope on it, then put on a pair of surgical gloves. Kat looked at me dubiously like I was about to give her an internal examination. She was about to say something, but then thought better of it and mimed zipping her lips.

I worked silently on the envelope which, unsurprisingly, was covered in fingerprints.

“Has anyone else in your household touched this envelope? Your husband or the maid?”

“No. I collected the post. My finger
marks will be on it though.”

“I know. I’ll need to take your fingerprints in a minute.”

“You’re not serious, David.”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

“How exciting.”

I carefully removed the sheet of paper from the envelope. White, A4, two folds: as expected. The printing and font were also the same as in the previous letters. This one said

THE INDO-CHINA INTERNATIONAL, BANGKOK,

IS DAVID BRADDOCK’S FAVOURITE HOTEL

Kat and I looked at each other. Then I said, “OK, let’s do your fingerprints now.”

I took out an ink pad and card template then slowly and methodically pressed each of Kat’s fingers in turn onto the pad and card. She watched me closely, a half-smile on her lips. I tried to ignore her feline scent and the closeness of her body, but it wasn’t easy.

Eventually she said, “You know, David, we should do this sort of thing more often.”

“I’m so glad you find this entertaining.”

She pressed her leg against mine and said, “Don’t be so grumpy, tirak. Are you finished or are there any other parts of me you want to rub in ink?”

“I’m done. You’d better wash your hands: you can go through next door.”

While she was out I dusted the letter and compared the prints with Kat’s. They all matched hers. Some of the envelope prints matched hers too, obviously. I doubted whether any of the other prints were the writer’s. He was too careful for that. I labelled Kat’s fingerprint card and put the paraphernalia into a plastic wallet. Later this would all join my private paranoia collection at home.

Kat came back in and sat down opposite me. She looked at me across the desk and waited for me to say something.

When I didn’t, she said, “So?”

“So what?”

“So what do you think?”

“I think we can safely assume the letters I’ve had are not part of some elaborate prank. In light of this,” I waved at the folder, “
they were clearly about you and me. Someone knows.”

“And more,” she said slowly, looking
into my eyes.

“Like what?”

“Well, you can call me the jealous type if you like, David, but look at the wording.
The Indo-China International, Bangkok, is David Braddock’s favourite hotel
.”

“Yes, well, you and I went there several times, so it would be.”

“It sounds to me like the writer is telling me that I’m not the only woman you’ve taken there.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“So you haven’t taken anyone else there?”

“No. Absolutely not
,” I said firmly.

“You see, I’ve been thinking about this today – I’ve thought about little else – and it occurs to me that perhaps the writer is some other woman you seduced and then dumped. She’s found out about us somehow and this is her way of getting revenge.
A woman scorned
. You know the saying.”