Everyone Burns (23 page)

Because of birth, decay, grief, lamentation, suffering, and despair arise.

Thus arises the entire mass of mankind’s suffering.

And thus the Lord of Death has dominion over us.

Some analogous chain of causation has led to the deaths of three foreign men here on the island, has committed them to the embrace of Yama. Some feeling, some desire, some attachment is at work; some twisted mission serves to propel forward a deluded individual towards acts of
obscene destruction. Someone out there is burning, aflame with a murderous obsession; and he is burning others because of it.

I try to remind myself that finding the killer is not
my
responsibility. I am only meant to be helping out. Catching this slayer is the work of the police. But I am not persuaded. It feels personal.

I scan the Wheel of Becoming for guidance, and I examine my own heart for clues by proxy as to what darkness may lie there.

*       *       *       *       *

As we sit in my study I observe Charoenkul’s face and demeanour, and am put in mind of a tyre with a puncture. His usual bombast and arrogance are absent. There is something deflated about him, and for parts of our conversation his attention seems to be somewhere else entirely. The fact that he actually thanks Wayan for his cup of green tea puts me on high alert: this is not the Papa Doc I know.

I need to be careful as to how I voice my thoughts on the abandoned building project and its possible significance to the murders. Already today I have made one wholly unsupportable supposition about Sinclair and been proved wrong within hours. I do not want my speculative ruminations about a link between a failed property development, the Promsai brothers and three dead foreigners to result in Prasert and Nikom being fitted up by Charoenkul for a hat-trick of murders. There is however, checking up which can be done by the police which may nudge my tentative hypothesis towards some kind of proof.

I am also anxious to avoid any discussion of Kat, since I am not
entirely
sure yet where the land lies with her husband on that subject.

I decide to start my report elsewhere.

“After seeing today’s body, I’ve been re-examining the photographs of the first two victims,” I tell the Chief. “I noticed something very curious that I hadn’t spotted on first viewing.”

I show him a selection of the photographs on my laptop that I’d downloaded from my camera earlier.

“Look at the pattern and intensity of burning on Lewis Carroll, the third victim. We may surmise that the murderer has judged the first killing site as now being too risky to use, and has had to find somewhere else to dispatch his prey. But consider: with this second site he is not so familiar. The screening from the main road is not so good and he is running a higher risk of discovery.
This time
he has to act very fast. The killing is the same method, but the precision is lacking. It is rushed, and a little panicky perhaps. The killer imagines he is short of time, every second counts. In those circumstances, he would only do what is absolutely necessary: ensure Carroll is dead, and burn only what needs to be burned.”

Charoenkul sips his tea and says almost convivially, “Go on.”

I point at the screen of my laptop.

“You can see care has been taken to ensure the hands and lower arms were completely burned, and the face has also been rendered unrecognisable. In Carroll’s case the nose has additionally been smashed for good measure: this didn’t happen with the other two. The rest of Carroll’s body was only partially consumed by the flames; as if burning that was only of secondary importance.”

I pull out the files on the first two men and extract a selection of the photographs.

“It’s not so easy to see with these shots; but it does seem that the hands and faces of Ashley and Boehme were more comprehensively disfigured than the rest of their bodies. I wouldn’t have noticed this were it not for today’s discovery.”

“So the killer was trying to remove the easily-identifiable aspects of his victims: face and possibly fingerprints,” says Charoenkul. “I don’t see what’s so surprising about that.”

“What’s surprising about it is that he left credit cards and other personal items on the bodies, which would enable the authorities to identify the victims relatively quickly.”

“Perhaps he assumed these would be unrecognisable after the fire too.”

“Well, it’s possible. However, it would have been much simpler and safer to have taken
away the cards and other stuff and got rid of them. If Carroll’s card was in his front trouser pocket, for instance, it may be virtually undamaged. Certainly Katchai’s team could read it easily at the scene according to your man.”

“So what’s your theory?”

I scratch my chin. “It’s like the killer only needed the body to be unidentifiable for a short time and after that it didn’t matter. He didn’t want the dead man’s face to be seen by someone who could recognise him; didn’t want a photograph of the face turning up in the next day’s paper maybe.”

“But why?”

“Beats me.”

“And the burned hands, what is that about?”

“There are various possibilities. First, it could be some ritualistic thing – as could the facial work – but I don’t know of any ritual that involves destruction of the hands in this manner. In some cultures there is the cutting off of a thief’s hands, but burning them away? No. So I don’t think that’s it.

“Secondly, it could be done to eliminate evidence: the killer’s skin under the victim’s fingernails, for example.”

“Like where the victim had scratched his attacker, you mean?”

“Yes. Although that would suggest all three victims had clawed their killer. Seems unlikely. As you said before, it could be to erase fingerprints, but that doesn’t chime with my hypothesis on the non-removal of the credit cards.”

“Perhaps the killer is just stupid, and there is no system at work here.”

“He’s not
that
stupid, or you would have caught him already.”

Charoenkul lapses into silence and looks at his hands.

“There is another factor that suggests itself to me,” I say when I can stand the quiet no longer. “The element of contempt. The face-down smashing of the head, the torching, the breaking of Carroll’s nose. The victims were despatched brutally, without dignity. This guy either hates farangs generally, or at least he hated these three men specifically. Although there is a deliberate act involved here, it is not a cold execution. Some passion is at work.”

“You’re not about to give me a lecture on the Three Buddhist Fires, I trust,” the Chief says drily, as if reading my mind.

“No,” I reply defensively, “but I think the fire motif is significant. Did you know that some years back there was a suicide by fire on the same spot as the first two murders?”

“That could just be a coincidence.”

“It
could
, but it would be a pretty strange coincidence, don’t you think?”

He ponders this a moment, then says, “Have you questioned the daughter of the blind man yet?”

“Yes. As you surmised, that was a dead end.” I have no intention of being responsible for Charoenkul’s gorillas hauling in Bee and Yai for further questioning.

“This is all very well, Braddock,” intones Papa Doc, sounding more like his usual unpleasant self, “
but don’t you have any more definite leads?”

I would like to remind him that my (unpaid) job here is to help with profiling, not to solve the case, but I bite my tongue. Now is the time to broach the subject I’ve been holding back.

“There is one avenue that may be worth pursuing,” I suggest tentatively.

“Spit it out then.”

“At the site of the first two killings there is a building project that was never finished. I gather it ran into financial trouble. I am further given to understand that the original backers were farangs.”

The Chief’s beady eyes fix on me and he seems interested, at last. “So you think someone here on the island may have lost money, and he’s pursuing a revenge agenda; that the three victims may be investors and the killer holds them responsible?” He’s way ahead of me.

“Of course, it’s just an idea. I have no way of checking all that out – but
you
could.”

Charoenkul rubs his hands and a sly smile creeps over his face. “Katchai’s team is definitely
not
looking at that line of inquiry.”

I continue, “Ashley and Boehme have visited the island before, some years back. I don’t know about Carroll, obviously.
It might explain something that’s been annoying me – how the first two victims came to be at the grove. If they actually knew their killer, well ...”

“I’ll do some checking. Interesting, Braddock, very interesting. Do you have anything else for me?”

“There is one thing, but I hesitate to mention it. You may think I’m crazy.”

“I may think that anyway. Go on.”

“OK, it’s the victims’ surnames: Ashley, Boehme and Carroll. A, B, C. They were killed in alphabetical order.”

Charoenkul frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“A, B, C,” I say again, hoping the Chief hasn’t read Agatha Christie’s
The ABC Murders
. “If we’re dealing with a serial killer rather than a disgruntled property investor, the alphabet may be his ‘system’.”

Papa Doc laughs. “Well, if that is the case, at least you’re safe. He’s already done ‘B’.”

“I told you before, murder investigations are not my speciality,” I say testily.

“Calm down, Braddock,” he urges. “I thought you British liked a joke. Maybe you are not so keen if it is a joke at your expense though, mmn?”

“Whatever.” I hand him a slim bound file I’d put together earlier. “Anyway, here’s my report. It covers the areas I’ve just discussed, and in rather more detail.”

“Good. I’ll make sure you are given details of any relevant findings on the Carroll death, particularly forensics.” He winks. “Then you can update and expand your report.”

“I’d rather hoped our business would now be finished.”

“I am afraid not.”

I expect him to get up and leave, but he doesn’t. Ominously he asks whether my ‘kind maid’ could bring some more tea. I find Wayan in the kitchen and pass on the order.

When I return to the study carrying the tea myself, Charoenkul is standing with his back to me gazing out of the window.

I set down the tray on the low table, take a comfortable chair and invite him to join me. I don’t know what’s coming next, but I have a feeling it won’t be enjoyable.

He sits and picks up the cup, sips distractedly, then settles back in his chair. He looks suddenly old and vulnerable, like some worn-out bureaucrat ground down by a lifetime of thankless activity and petty politicking. But I have to remind myself this is
Charoenkul
, after all. A man whose vindictiveness is legendary, and someone who remains dangerous to D. Braddock Esquire. He is still the police official with whose wife I have enjoyed carnal knowledge; a fact which, at some juncture, I expect him to become acquainted. I have to be careful. Papa Doc has bite in him yet.
‘Tis better playing with a lion’s whelp // Than with an old one dying
.

I wait for him to voice what is on his mind.
He looks at me for what feels like an eternity before saying, “Mr. Braddock, how much can I rely on your discretion?”

“Chief,
as I have already told you, so far as my involvement in this murder investigation is concerned –”

He raises a hand to cut me off. 

“The matter I wish to discuss has nothing to do with the murder investigation.”

I wait.

“It is a private matter,” he says, selecting his words with care. “A personal ... issue.”

I can feel that now-familiar tightening in my chest and my palms are beginning to sweat, but I maintain an outward composure and say mechanically, “Whatever you have to say stays in this room; if that’s what you want.”

“Didn’t you wonder why I wanted to meet at your house today, rather than at my house?”

“It didn’t strike me as important,” I reply. “I assumed you had a reason.”

“Indeed,” he lets out a long sigh. “The matter I wish to talk to you about concerns my wife.”

I can see him struggling to get out the words.

“I believe she may be having an affair.”

I had unwisely taken a sip of tea, and it takes me a while to stop choking on it at this statement.

“Excuse me,” I mutter hoarsely, trying to recover my aplomb, “but what makes you think Mrs. Charoenkul is having an affair?” For the second time today I can feel my heart trying to punch its way through my chest.

The Chief continues haltingly. “Until today I had some rather ... loose suspicions. My wife, you understand, enjoys considerable freedom to do as she pleases. Apart from some charitable activities, her time is her own. In recent months she has taken to going on shopping trips to Bangkok, naturally staying overnight. Sometimes she is out very late ... and there is a
change
in her that I cannot put my finger on. Until today, I only knew that something was
different
about her.”