Everyone Burns (30 page)

Da rolls her eyes and says, “Mr
. Braddock, this is Mr. Mitchell. He’s just arrived and wondered if he could see you for a few minutes. He says it’s urgent.” Her expression says
we have nothing else in the book, and I’ll shortly have a baby to feed
.

Oh, what the hell.
I could do with a short distraction.

I usher the foot-dragging throwback into the West Office and take some details. Trevor (“Trev to my friends”) Mitchell wants me to keep a
close eye on his ‘squeeze’ for him after he returns to his family estate in Millwall. The squeeze in question turns out to be my old friend Ting. She certainly doesn’t waste any time. Trev is no lovelorn Harold Jayne, and therefore I’m inclined to take his money without giving him the gypsy’s warning. He looks aghast when I tell him the cost of my retainer, but he coughs up the cash anyway. I’m beginning to think I should offer Ting a partnership since she brings so much business my way. It could be a mutually beneficial arrangement.

“Nice man,” utters my now-whale-like assistant ironically
once the bad smell has left the office. “English. Nice.”

“Aren’t you
ever
going to drop this kid?” I ask gruffly at this slur on my nation.

“I will as soon as we’ve organised my temporary replacement.”

“Not that line again.”

“At least let my cousin fill in until you can find someone more suitable.”

“Just how
unsuitable
is your cousin? Can she speak English?”

“A little.”

I groan.

“Anyway,
Khun David,” she says trying to get comfortable in her seat, “I have two pieces of good news for you.”

“Well, I could do with some of that.”

“First, I’ve organised us some free publicity. I’m very confident it will bring us some new business.”

“How exactly have you done that?” I ask suspiciously.

“I called the
Island Daily
and told them about how the David Braddock Agency was paying for old man Yai’s eye operation as a way of giving back to the community. They’ll be running the story next week.”

I groan again.

“I knew there was no point asking them to send a photographer, because you’d refuse to co-operate, so I gave them one of your old photographs instead.”

“How old?”

She hesitates. “Quite old,” she says.

“Great.”

“Think of the business.”

“Think of the begging letters.”

“You know I’m right.”

I sigh. “You’re always right. What’s the second bit of good news? I hope it’s better than the first.”

Da reaches under the desk and produces a carved wooden boat. “This. Bee called in the office and dropped it off for you, as a way of saying thank you.”

I examine the boat. It’s quite a work of art, and beautifully painted, with large eyes on the bow to ward off evil spirits.

“A gift from Charon,” I say.

“Sharon?” Da asks, puzzled. “I thought her name was Bee.”

“Not
Sh
aron.
Ch
aron. He’s the boatman who ferries the dead across the River Styx to the Underworld, at least according to the Ancient Greeks.”

“Oh really?”
says Da, uninterested.

I go on regardless. “As you probably know,
American films usually depict him as a skeleton or death-like figure, but actually he’s an old man in a loincloth. I can’t stand that sort of American inaccuracy. It bugs me. It’s like when they show coins put on the eyes of the dead man to pay for his passage, when in fact the Greeks would usually put the coin in the corpse’s mouth.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m educating you. Did you ever see the film
Gladiator
?”

“Russell Crowe, yes. Quite a man. Big muscles.”

“Never mind that. You know when the Emperor gives the ‘thumb down’ for the defeated gladiator to be killed?”

“Yes,” she says cautiously.

“It’s rubbish. The ‘thumb down’ actually was a sign for the gladiator to be spared, not killed. It’s an urban myth, and it’s not right. Ridley Scott, the director, knew what he was showing was inaccurate, but stuck with it anyway, thinking he might confuse his audience. At least nobody can ever accuse Hollywood film-makers of being
educators
.”

“Have you finished educating me?”

I’m rambling. Let’s get back on track. Da doesn’t give a stuff about this crap.

“For now.”

Da shuffles around in her seat again. “Bee’s quite plain, isn’t she? Poor thing. She needs feeding. Or the love of a good man, like my Tong. I liked her, though.”

I ignore
all this. “I guess I’d better call her or Yai. See how the consultation went. It was this morning, right? Or is it this afternoon?”

“
This morning.”

I take the boat into the East Office and find a suitable display position for it.

I’m not sure what Yai’s attitude to me is following my rather aggressive approach at our last meeting. Saving face is almost as important to the Thais as it is to the Chinese, and I’ve probably bruised his dignity. I’d like to think I’m usually more culturally sensitive, but on this occasion …

I decide to call Bee to test the waters.

She is at home, and sounds excited. The consultation went well and Yai is being scheduled in for the op next week. She is almost as happy about the fact that Yai is there with her, and he and her mother are talking finally. I hear some gabbling in the background and Bee conveys to me that her mother would like me to join them for a meal at their house during the Chinese New Year celebrations. I thank them for the invitation and for the boat, and say I will sort out the hospital payment direct so everything should go smoothly. I also suggest tentatively that, if Yai is at home tomorrow, I will drop by and see him some time in the afternoon.

“Grandfather says that will be fine,” Bee replies after some chatter. “He would like to see you.”

Since there’s nothing in the appointment book, I tell Da I’ve decided to close the office until after Chinese New Year, with immediate effect.

“That gives you almost a week to have the baby,” I say. “Even you should be able to manage that. And before you ask, yes, I will pay you for the days.”

“And I can call my cousin about filling in temporarily?”

“If you must. And ring me, or have Tong ring me, when the wee one finally puts in an appearance.” I hand her a red envelope with some cash inside. “Here, this is for the little bugger.”

Da rises with some difficulty and squeezes my arm.

“Thank you, boss,” she says smiling. “If it’s a boy perhaps we’ll call him David.”

“Don’t you bloody dare. Now go home.”

“You still haven’t told me what you were
really
doing in Bangkok.”

My cell
phone rings. “Some other time,” I say heading back into the office. “Sorry, I have to take this. Go home.”

I close the door behind me.

“Yes, Chief Charoenkul,” I say. “What can I do for you?”

Twenty minutes later I’m parking the jeep on the patch of sun hardened waste ground next to Bophut Police Station.

In spite of Charoenkul’s view of a few days ago that he didn’t want us to meet here he’s changed his
fickle mind. Or something else has changed. I walk towards the public entrance with a deepening sense of dread. He sounded spiky on the phone and was in no mood to tell me
why
I’d been summoned, so I’m expecting the worst. Actually, I’m not even sure what the worst
is
any more.

Self-preservation. Think self-preservation, Braddock. Be confident and assertive. Lie boldly. Get your story straight and don’t over-elaborate. Otherwise Papa Doc will chew you up and spit you out.

The public waiting area is every bit as depressing as I remember it. The strip-light still hasn’t been repaired, and the smell of the unwashed hangs heavy in the stale air. The foxy female police officer is manning the desk again. I state my name and hand her one of my business cards.

“If you ever need any therapy, or if you need someone to keep an eye on a wandering husband, give me a call,” I say, more as a reflex than with any serious seductive intent.

“I’m not married,” she says meaningfully before asking some other officer to take me up to the boss. I am expected.

The lift is out of commission so we take the stairs, which makes me feel more depressed. I do however have sufficient presence of mind to plant an assured expression on my face and to straighten my back before I plunge into the Chief’s lair,
moving past his skeletal tooth-picking secretary on the way.

Deng Charoenkul is standing with his hands behind his back looking out of the window. After a moment he turns and gives an impatient flick of the head to indicate my police escort should leave. His eyes have an angry look and his voice is clipped when he says to me, “Sit down, Braddock.”

I sit. He remains standing, peering at me through those piggy little eyes.

To break the silence I remark, “I thought you didn’t want us to meet here again, Chief Charoenkul.”

He gives a dismissive wave as if the matter is not worth discussing before lowering himself gingerly onto his chair; on which I notice there is a thick padded cushion. A brief spasm of discomfort flicks across his face as he completes the manoeuvre.

“Are you in pain?” I ask somewhat unnecessarily.

“You could say that,” he replies tight-lipped.

“Haemorrhoids?” I proffer.

He glowers at me. “If you must know, yes,” he hisses.

“That’s a bummer.”

“Are you trying to be amusing?” he asks nastily.

“No, Chief, sorry. Unfortunate phrase. Very unpleasant condition, not a joking matter. My apologies.”

He adjusts his position and winces slightly.

“Flares up
now and again. And I’ve got an important bloody golf game on Sunday. It’s very inconvenient.”

“You’re playing golf on the day of the election?”

“What did you expect me to be doing? Roaming the streets with my officers harassing voters?”

“Of course not, I –”

“Thailand is a democratic country, Braddock. The Police Chief doesn’t need to be on duty on election day, it’s a routine matter.”

I say nothing.

He eases himself back in his chair and appears to relax slightly although I know he’s fully alert. Hard not to be when you’re suffering from piles.

“So give me a full report on the last two days.”

I run through my prepared speech while he sits, motionless and watchful, never taking his eyes from my face.

“So you’re certain nothing happened?” he asks.

“Look,” I reply, “your wife went with her sick friend to the hospital. She stayed at her friend’s house. They went shopping. End of story.”

He looks unconvinced.

“Of course,” I suggest, “it may be that she banged some junior doctor in a broom cupboard while her friend was having her consultation, but on the whole I’d consider it unlikely.”

“That’s enough of that,” he snaps. “This is
my wife
you’re talking about.”

“And someone who, in my humble opinion, is under suspicion unfairly,” I state without the hint of a blush. “Based on what I’ve observed, Mrs
. Charoenkul is
not
fooling around.” If I pull this off I really should be in line for an Oscar.

Charoenkul
emits a non-committal grunt.

“Do you want me to go on following her?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to give you a written report?”

“No.”

“Do you want copies of the photographs I took? They’re pretty boring, but you’re entitled.”

“No.”

“Then can I ask you one more question?”

“What?” he barks at me impatiently.

“Why did you consider it necessary to employ a second private investigator to watch your wife? And a second-rate one at that? Do you doubt my competence or my integrity?” I hope I sound more annoyed than nervous.

“Listen, Braddock,” he says heavily, “When a man gets the idea that his wife might be unfaithful rationality flies away. You make your living out of people’s jealousy. You of all men should know that. I wanted some insurance, that’s all, a second opinion.”

I continue to look at Papa Doc like someone whose professional pride has been hurt.

“Anyway,” he intones gruffly, “I called him off as you asked. I don’t know why you’re so offended.”

“So can I give you my bill now?”

He reaches into the top drawer of his desk, takes out a wad of thousand-Baht notes and tosses it at me.