Everyone Burns (3 page)

“I do. Goodbye, David.”

“Goodbye,
Nittha.”

She glides out to reception. I hear her exchange a few words and some Baht with Da, then she is gone.

Da puts her head around the door. “Was it a Matrimonial?” she asks.

“Not exactly. But you were right about the smoking. And the shoes.”

“Nice breasts too, don’t you think?” she says mischievously.

“The best that money can buy.”

“I don’t suppose mine will look like that after the baby.”

“No comment. Go file something.”

I indulge myself in a moment of self-congratulation at having avoided a surveillance job on Godfather Rattanakorn and at also perhaps having helped his wife – although the flirting was probably a bad idea.

I now have to shift mental gears to PI mode, and I pass through the connecting door to the
more austere West Office where I see my PI clients. A desk, three chairs, a filing cabinet, an aircon, and a discreetly concealed bottle of Bells. That’s about it. I have an hour checking emails and updating a report for a client on my laptop before Da announces the arrival of my first official appointment for the day.

“Herr Vogel.”

There are some people you warm to at first sight: you just
know
they are going to be fun to be around. Klaus Vogel is not one of those people. Neither does he match the profile of my average PI client, which is overweight, over forty and over-anxious (and, of course, over here). Vogel looks like a Nazi propaganda pin-up boy from the 1930s: severely cut blond hair, broad-shouldered and unquestionably fit. When he removes his Gucci shades, his eyes are cold and blue as anti-freeze. He sports an expensive-looking watch, fine linen shirt and trousers and hand-made Italian shoes. His tastefully-undone top buttons reveal a tasteless gold medallion and the upper part of a hairless torso. I’m betting he waxes.

“Klaus Vogel,” he says unnecessarily through humourless lips.

“David Braddock,” I reply, suppressing the urge to click my heels.

He sits down without waiting to be asked, quickly scanning the bare room with an obvious air of distaste. He places a slim black folder on my desk and centres it, as any good anal retentive would. I am unsure whether to pick it up or not
. I decide on balance to leave it where it is.

“So, Mr
. Vogel, what can I do for you?” (I have decided to drop the ‘Herr’ bit.)

“Mr
. Braddock, I understand you specialise in private investigations, and you have been in business here on the island for some years.” The voice is precise and flat, like an Englishman impersonating a German speaking English.

“That’s what the advertisement says, yes.”

“And you operate a discreet service, is that correct?”

“Like a Catholic priest in a confessional.”

“That means nothing to me. I am not a Catholic.”

This is going to be hard work. I decide to cut out the levity and assume an air of gravitas. I place my elbows deliberately on the desk and rest my forearms on its surface.

“Merely a metaphor,” I say. “Whatever is said in this room never leaves the room. I wouldn’t stay in business long, Mr. Vogel, if I blabbed around my clients’ personal affairs. This is a small island. Reputation counts for a lot.”

“Quite so.” He looks at me with x-ray eyes for a moment. I hold his gaze and he nods curtly.

“Well then, to business.”

“I should explain my fee and expenses structure to you –”

He holds up a hand. “Thank you, that is not necessary. I have already questioned your secretary on this matter and I am quite satisfied.”

Da and I have a system on PI fees. If the client is well-off but unpleasant, he is quoted Scale B (expensive); otherwise Scale A (not so expensive – just about keeps my car in petrol). It’s my own little island version of socialism. Da is a shrewd judge of character so I’m laying a wager Vogel is on Scale B.

“I wish you to observe a young woman for me.” He pauses to see my reaction but there isn’t one, so he pushes the black folder forward and indicates for me to open it. “It is all in there,” he says. “You may study it at your leisure.”

“Before I open your file and start taking your money, I need to ask you one or two questions.”

He stiffens, “Really? Why?”

“It’s part of my procedures.”

He relates to
procedures
and relaxes a little.

“Very well.”

“First, I need to know your interest in this girl and how long you have known her.”

“I have known her for a week. As to my interest in her –” he purses his thin lips somewhat priggishly, “– let us say she has some charm and certain talents which intrigue me.”

And they say romance is dead.

“Does she work in a bar?”

“Yes.”

“I should tell you, Mr
. Vogel, based on my experience of bar girls, there is a 95% probability that she will be sleeping with someone else within 48 hours of your leaving the island. However much ‘allowance’ you have promised her, she can earn several times that by staying on the market – meanwhile pocketing your ‘allowance’.”

“She does not strike me as that type of girl.”

“Yet you still want me to follow her. Check for boyfriends, suitors, people paying her attention – that sort of thing, presumably?”

“Yes. I need to be sure.”

“I see.”

Actually, I don’t see. It’s a puzzle why this guy would be interested in a bar girl. With his looks – if you discount for a moment his character – he should have no problem picking up females. On the other hand, his personality could be a very effective form of contraception.
Could
he be in love? With someone besides himself, that is? I plough on.

“Where does she work?”

“In the Ocean Pearl.”

“That’s a proper bar,” I remark with some surprise. “It’s not in Girly Bar Heaven. It’s not even a girly bar.”

“I know,” he says.

“Your chances just got better.”

“My chances of what?”

“Your chances of a happy ending.” I realise I could have phrased this better, but the
word-play is lost on him anyway.

“Read the file, Mr
. Braddock,” he says. “All you need to know is in there. There are also photographs of the girl. Her name is Wiwattanee Lamphongchat, although she prefers to be called ‘Jingjai’.”

“
True Heart.
”

“I’m sorry?”

“In Thai, ‘jing’ means ‘true’ or ‘real’, and ‘jai’ means ‘heart’ or ‘soul’. Hence
True Heart
.”

“I see. True Heart. Yes.”

I open the folder: two word-processed pages of data – her address, the address of the bar, lots of other sundry details – and four photographs of a cute if somewhat tomboyish Thai girl. She is not familiar to me, which may be good news for Vogel. Meanwhile Romeo drones on.

“I have included an email address for me, although I doubt you will need it. I do not give out my cell
phone number to people I do not know well. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I will be back in Samui in seven to ten days, and you can give me a report then. I will leave a week’s retainer for you with your secretary. I can pay any balance on my return. I trust that is satisfactory?”

“Perfectly.”

“And cash is acceptable?”

“Always.”

“Good. I will of course need a receipt. Business expenses,” he says without a trace of embarrassment.

“My secretary, Miss Da, will furnish you with the necessaries.”

“Then I will say goodbye, My Braddock. Please be efficient on my behalf, and invisible. I do not wish the girl to think I mistrust her.”

And so, managing to be quaintly polite, pointedly rude, and unintentionally ironic all in one speech, my paradoxical client leaves, taking his medallion and his charisma with him.
I make a mental note to introduce a Fee Scale C for especially odious bastards. Thank the powers that not all Germans are like Vogel. Generally I like German people. Actually, most of the male ones I’ve met remind me of me. Although I recognise that is not necessarily a compliment.

A few minutes later Da appears.

“I charged your last client at the B Rate,” she says.

“Good girl.”

“He paid in cash. It looks as though we will be eating this week. Speaking of eating, Wayan called. She wants to know if you will be home for dinner this evening.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Romantic dinner for two with Miss Noi?”

“Don’t let the door hit your bump on the way out. I’m going to lunch.”

*       *       *       *       *

It has not rained for days and the dusty streets lie prone beneath the sun’s relentless assault.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines
, as the Bard observed in one of his sonnets. But in spite of the surrender of the cracked earth, humanity is astir in the town. The Beautiful and the Damned have emerged from their lairs and troop or stoop their way respectively along the pavements, carrying shopping and hangovers. Another day in Paradise.

Lunch comprises a gin and tonic, a bottle of imported water and a few cigarettes
. I sit under a large umbrella facing the beach and glittering sea. Having only one appointment this afternoon, I permit myself some people-watching and reflection time.

The day’s discussions thus far ha
ve proved interesting if somewhat puzzling. Nittha Rattanakorn is a particularly worrying client. True I don’t know for certain that Thongchai Rattanakorn puts horses’ heads under bedsheets or his enemies’ feet in concrete galoshes, but the criminal activities with which he is (allegedly) associated suggest a mild slap on the wrist would not be his preferred method of punishment. I justify my flirting with the wife of one of Thailand’s
jâo phâw
on the basis that I have not yet established whether she is a PI client (in which case the flirting is ethically OK as far as I am concerned) or a therapy client (in which case it is not). Self-delusional as I may be on occasion, I can nonetheless see this distinction is pretty thin.
Do not under any circumstances meet Nittha Rattanakorn outside of the office
, I inscribe in my mental Not-To-Do-List.

Vogel is more of an enigma. Many lovelorn
farangs have passed through my under-varnished doors over the last few years, seeking confirmation that their vision of love, sex and happiness is not a mirage. Usually they are disappointed, but at least initially they travel in hope; and with passion, fire, fear, doubt – all the human qualities so patently absent from my cold-blooded, control-freaky client of today. Something is missing from this picture at present, but I will paint in the details eventually.

On my way back to the office I pass a beggar huddled in the doorway of a shuttered shop, sheltering from the heat. This is an unusual sight in Samui, as itinerants are normally moved on quickly by the police to keep them from the eyes of tourists. This guy is filthy and looks about at the end of his rope. His skin colour and facial characteristics suggest he is from one of the Northern tribes, presumably having made his way to the island via Bangkok in search of work. Clearly, he has not found any. I hand him a fistful of Baht and he nods and gives me a
smile displaying a mouthful of stained teeth.

“Good luck.”

*       *       *       *       *

I am back in familiar territory with my afternoon appointment.
Harold Jayne, a procurement officer with a haulage company in Slough, is reassuringly fat, balding, middle-aged and with a face like a marguerita pizza. On his podgy wrist is clamped a fake Rolex (the scratches on the glass are a dead giveaway), and, as a final nice touch, the armpits of his
Samui Heaven
tee-shirt are drenched in sweat. However, Harold is a man on a mission. He is almost certain he has found True Love: he simply needs my final reassurance.

“I saw your billboard when I left the airport, Mr
. Braddock,” he says in his Slough lilt. “I never thought I’d need to see you when I came to Samui, but here I am. Wow! What a holiday it’s been!”

“I’m pleased you’ve had a good time. Now perhaps we could discuss the lady?”

“Ah, yes. Well, her name is Ting. Ting Saksri. She works in the Rubber Bar. And she’s gorgeous. I brought a couple of photos, look. I downloaded them from my camera and printed them out at the PixShop in town.”

I decide to give him a break.

“Are you a fan of Kipling, Mr. Jayne?”

He looks puzzled. “The cakes, you mean?”

“No, the author.”

A blank.

“Wrote
The Jungle Book
?” I prompt.

“Oh. I saw the film when I was a kid.”

“Never mind. Let me ask you: do you believe a leopard can change its spots?”