Everyone Burns (17 page)

I gave Wayan the incense sticks and a hug, took a shower and shut myself in the study to make some notes for Charoenkul before my personal preoccupations closed in again and put an end to any creative thinking. Kat’s letter was filed with the others for another day.

I looked at my notes on the murders. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that to gain traction on the case I needed to answer two questions.

How had the victims been transported to the scene?

Why had the bodies been burned, yet identification left on them?

I tapped some notes for the Chief into my laptop, aware of the fact that my little essay seemed to deal more with logistics than the psychology of the victims and killer; which is what Papa Doc had wanted me to focus on.

I left out the superstitious stuff about the murder site (lest he think me whimsical) and the nagging voice in my head about the non-barking dog in the night-time (lest he think me unhinged). For good measure I put in some trendy psychobabble which was, to put it mildly, gibberish. After this I went out into the garden awhile to smoke three cigarettes and to ponder the mystery of
fire
.

Given that the purpose of burning the bodies did not appear to be primarily associated with the destruction of the victims’ identities, I wondered whether there might be some ritualistic significance attached to it.

Fire has a deep and primal place in the human mind. I thought of the Greek myth of Prometheus who brought the gift of fire to man and incurred the wrath of Zeus who believed fire should be the preserve of the Gods. For his trouble, Prometheus was bound to a rock by adamantine chains, his innards pecked at eternally by an eagle. (It’s amazing how a public-school education colonises your head with this Greek stuff; along with Latin ephemera.
Omnia Dicta Fortiori Si Dicta Latina
.)

Fire also resonates deeply in the world’s religions, whether we consider the Judeo-Christian traditions involving candles and incense, the Three Fires of Buddhism, the Hindus’ sacred
Agni
, or the Aztec, Mayan and Egyptian cultures’ worship of the sun. In all these systems, fire represents light and life, but there is also a purification element; a searing of souls. Even non-religious, state-sponsored methods of corpse disposal encompass cremation.

The flame that enlightens
, the fire that destroys.

This philosophy would be lost on the Chief, however.
It was best I avoided anthropological meditations in my notes. I went back inside, tidied up the draft document and switched off the laptop.

I phoned Anna, Claire’s sister. The s
even-hour time difference between Thailand and the UK meant that it was now mid-morning there, and with luck Anna would be at home unless she was taking Jenny to one of those innumerable weekend activities that four-year-olds thrive on.

As well as being Claire’s sister, Anna is one of my oldest friends: in fact I met her before I got to know Claire. She is in addition my confidante, personal shrink and chief cheerleader. Anna was widowed a few months before Jenny was born, but she shares with Wayan an indomitable optimism that things will turn out for the best. She’s also the best damn editor in
Bright Sparks Publishing.

To my delight she picks up.

“Anna Holland.”

“Hi, Anna, it’s David.”

“David, how lovely to hear your voice.”

“It’s mutual, my dear. How are you? And how’s Jenny?”

“We’re both fine. Jenny’s at a friend’s this morning, and I was just wondering what to do with myself for the next few hours.”

“Well, I can help you fill in some of that time, anyway.”

“You sound happy.”

“I don’t always phone you when I’m miserable.”

She laughed. “Not
always
, no. Just
usually
. What’s happening with you?”

I told her about my involvement in the murder investigation, but not about the anonymous letters. There are some things you can’t discuss with your sister-in-law.

She sounded a bit concerned at this news. “I thought you said you didn’t trust the Thai police. ‘Gangsters in uniform’, I think was the term you used. Are you sure you should be getting involved in something like that?”

“It’s a favour. Don’t worry. Everything’s OK.”

“I do worry about you,” she said. There was a pause and then she went on. “Are you and Claire still talking?”

“Sometimes,” I replied. “I don’t see much of Claire these days. She’s rarely around.”

“When did you last speak?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“Oh, David.”

“Hey, Anna, let’s change the subject. I didn’t phone to talk about me. I want to hear about you and Jenny.”

We spoke for a while about the sorts of things that normal people talk about: work, school, family, the weather. It reminded me I’d once had a straightforward existence, although that seemed light years away from my current life.

“You have remembered it’s your father’s birthday tomorrow, David, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And you will ring him?”

“Yes, I’ll phone the old bugger.”

“Promise? It’s important. He wants to hear from you.”

“I doubt that. But I will call him.”

“When are you next coming over? I miss you, and so does Jenny.”

“In a few months. I’ll let you know when the flights are booked. By the way,” I said, “I miss you too.”

“I should hope so, Mr
. Braddock.”

After we’d finished I phoned Katie
. I found my daughter at her desk at Croft Daniels, International Legal Advisors, dragged into the office at the weekend by some urgent litigation work.

“Hi,
Dad.”

“Hi,
Katie, how are you?”

“Oh, same-same, you know. Still trying to tip the scales of justice in our clients’ favour. Working on a couple of interesting cases, actually. How about you?”

“Helping out on a murder investigation.”

“Sounds cool.”

“How’s the boyfriend?”

“He has a name, you know,” she said huffily.

“Just teasing.”

“He’s fine. When are you back in the UK?”

“Soon. I’ll call you.”

“Dad, I have to go.”

“OK, pumpkin.”

“Don’t forget to ring
Grandpa tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

I wandered through to the kitchen where Wayan was doing some ironing and watching a soap on the small TV.

“Mr
. David, would you like something to eat?”

“No thanks, Wayan, I’m eating out later.” I gave her a hug.

This being her second hug of the day, she looked at me quizzically. “You are very happy today, Mr. David,” she said.

“I am. Have you had any more dreams I should know about?”

Her face took on a serious expression and she put the iron down. “Last night I dreamed about you. You were running away from a big flying demon. He kept swooping over your head. You tried to keep him away with a stick.”

Spooky
. Especially as I had not mentioned to Wayan either my conversation with Yai or my nocturnal visit to the coconut grove.

“Did the demon get me?” I asked half-seriously.

“No. I woke myself up so he could not eat you.”

“That’s good. Actually,
you know, I’ve been having some strange dreams myself in the last couple of days.”

“Am I in your dreams?”

“No, Wayan, I don’t need to have you in my dreams,” I said reassuringly, “you are here all the time looking after me when I am awake.”

“Is Miss Claire in your dreams?”

“Sometimes, Wayan,” I said. “Sometimes.”

*       *       *       *       *

Watching Jingjai later was every bit as uneventful as I’d expected it to be. The smart Westerner I’d seen the other evening was back trying his luck again and obviously floundering. How many martini cocktails was this guy going to drink before he realised he was wasting his time?

When Bryan Ferry’s cover version of
‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’ came on the restaurant sound system for the third time, I couldn’t sit there any longer. A mélange of ennui and the afterglow of today’s manic happiness attack combined to haul me out of my seat and across the road into the Ocean Pearl. I needed to have something to put in my report to Vogel, even if I had to act as an agent provocateur to produce a storyline.

I parked my behind on a barstool next to the Westerner who looked none-too-pleased at my appearance. His evening was about to get worse.

I targeted Jingjai with what I hoped was my most winning smile and beckoned her over.

“Yes, sir,” she said in a husky voice that carried a slight lisp.

“What can you recommend, beautiful?” I asked.

“I’m afraid Happy Hour is over
, sir.”

“Never mind. I’m sure every hour I spend in this bar looking at you will be a Happy Hour anyway.”

She smiled and I saw the diamond twinkle. The guy on the stool next to me grimaced but I ignored him.

“Well, let me see. How about
Sex on the Beach, or shall we save that for later?”

She must hear this sort of corny chat-up every other evening, but she laughed good-naturedly.
I like this girl already,
I thought.
I hope she is on the level.

“I’m only kidding,” I said. “I’ll have a
Marguerita. Lots of salt. And can I get you a drink?”

“That’s kind of you, sir, but I’m al
l right at the moment.”

“Hey, you’re turning down a drink? I must be uglier than I thought.”

“I don’t drink when I’m working, sir. But perhaps my customer will give me a nice tip at the end of the evening?”

“Smart girl. I’m David, by the way.” I held out my hand and she took it.

“Jingjai.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jingjai. Miss True Heart,” I said in Thai.

She looked impressed. “You have a good Thai accent, Khun David.”

“Let’s speak Thai for the rest of the evening. I need the practice.”

She went off to mix my drink and the other guy shifted on his stool uncomfortably. He wasn’t even going to be able to follow the conversation from now on. Clearly he didn’t speak any Thai.

To add to his discomfort I nudged him and said, “Nice girl.”

“She
is
,” he said pointedly, “A very nice girl.”

“Your accent sounds Lancastrian. I’m guessing ... Manchester?”

“Yes.”

“United or City?”

“I don’t follow football,” he said cutting off the conversation.

Jingjai came back with my drink. I took a good look at her. The breasts beneath the
Ocean Pearl polo shirt had definitely had some work done on them, yet there was something androgynous about her body. Slim hips, rather like a boy’s. She carried herself well though, and was nicely turned out, with her hair cut shorter than the norm. Her makeup could best be described as theatrical – a lot of black around the eyes, and the false eyelashes were not exactly to my taste. Not beautiful, not plain. Tomboyish, if you discounted the eye make-up. No visible tattoos, modest earrings. She could hold your gaze which testified to self-confidence, and her voice lacked the shrillness of your average bargirl. She was clearly
not
your average bargirl. Her manner was that of someone filling in time while she waited for something better to come along. I doubted that
something better
was a white man with a black wallet. So where and how did Vogel fit into this picture?

“You strike me as way too educated and sophisticated to be working in a bar,” I said to her.

“Ah, if I told you about that, Khun David, I would have told you too much.” She went off to serve another customer.

Two more
Margueritas and a
Chang
beer later, and I was no nearer to veering our talk towards a rendezvous in my non-existent hotel room. The Mancunian at my side had become increasingly morose, but was obviously determined not to leave. I suspected a deep masochistic streak. But whatever, that was his problem.

Thankfully there was no live band playing at the
Pearl
– most of the bands on the island are awful, in my humble opinion – and the musical selection was fairly good, and not too loud. Robert Palmer’s ‘Addicted to Love’ had just started playing when my cell phone rang and I had to ask the caller to wait while I stepped outside.

It was Nittha Rattanakorn.

“David, I’m … I’m really sorry to call you so late, and on a Saturday too.” Her voice sounded strained and intense.

“What is it, Nittha?”

“I’m … erm … David, can you meet me?”