Everyone Burns (31 page)

“I don’t need a bill. That should take care of it.”

I put the bundle into my pocket without counting the notes. I’d better not push my luck. After all, it’s not every day someone pays you for your time while you’re having sex with his wife.

“On the
other little matter,” I say, “you know, the one involving dead farangs? Any progress in tracking down the foreign backers for that Lamai building project?”

The Chief shakes his head. “We’re still working on that. However, I should be able to get you something on the Carroll forensics in the next couple of days.”

I wonder whether Kat will be doing the translation again, but I don’t ask.

“
I’ve noticed the murders seem to be getting a lot of press coverage. Investigator Katchai is having a hard time of it I imagine. You must be pleased.”

Charoenkul curls his lip. “Hardly,” he sneers. “Katchai’s bumbling is reflecting badly on the Royal Thai Police. While I don’t want him coming out of this a hero, I’d rather he failed more discreetly. He’s making us all look like clowns.”

I say nothing.

“Oh, by the way,” he says, changing the subject, “I have a little bonus for you.”

“What’s that?”

“The car that was parked outside your house the other night: one of my officers took down the registration number.”

He hands me a slip of paper with the number and make of car on it.

“We checked it out. It’s registered to a company based here on the island called
Smiley Cars. I thought you might like to know.”

“Thanks.” His boys have just gone up in my estimation.

“Let me know if you want me to do anything further. Though this is really a private matter.”

“It’s OK. I’ll take it from here.”

Papa Doc stands up to indicate the conversation is over and presumably to give his bottom a rest.

As I reach the door he speaks to my back.

“Of course you do realise, Braddock, that if I ever found out that my wife
was
having an affair, I’d kill the fucking man involved.”

I look back at him over my shoulder.

“That’s really not my concern,” I say.

*       *       *       *       *

The brutal sun has long since called it a day as I park the jeep in Chaweng’s main street, but the effect of its sizzling presence lingers. There is a distinct electrical crackle in the air, although some of this may stem from the upcoming election or the approach of the Chinese New Year as the Monkey readies himself to give way to the Rooster.

All day the markets have been busy as people stock up on food and other offerings. Decorations are appearing on balconies, porches and street furniture, and the island is taking on a red and gold
hue. On one occasion today I glimpsed dragon dancers in rehearsal, and witnessed the scolding of some waifs who had been letting off fireworks prematurely.

Vehicles equipped with loudspeaker systems have been jamming the narrow roads, the election
wagons competing with those advertising Muay Thai. Commercial interests have however been fighting back against the democratic tide, and some election posters appear to have been covered with flyers for drinking competitions and something that looks like a wet t-shirt contest judging from the accompanying picture. Either that or some blonde girl with large breasts is standing for political office. Well, I’d vote for her anyway.

My adolescent employee (and sometime drug-dealer) having finished his homework, he meets me at a local bar. Puffing on a Marlboro, I exchange the pre-agreed amount of Baht for the safe return of my second-best camera, which he assures me has plenty of pictures of Jingjai in it. He
further informs me that the
Ocean Pearl
is having a few evenings of special events, since the bar is closing this weekend for ‘renovation’. I thank him for his information while politely declining his request for me to buy him a beer, explaining that it is against my principles to corrupt the young of the island.

Strolling casually past the
Pearl I see my young informer is correct. There is a hastily-painted sign announcing that Saturday will be the last night before the remodelling of the establishment starts. Jingjai is on duty inside but doesn’t see me: the place is already busy with customers taking advantage of the ‘special’ prices. Presumably the girl with the diamond tooth will shortly be out of a job. I don’t know whether that will please Vogel or not.

Someone else I recognise is also on duty tonight. The old tramp, showing superhuman powers of resilience, is still on the island despite th
e intimidation I’ve already witnessed from the local representatives of law enforcement. He seems to me like a talisman, poking a begrimed finger in the eye of uncaring authority; a symbol of the indomitability of the stinky human spirit. As usual I hand him some Baht, and as usual he treats me to his decayed smile.

“Hey, Braddock, I see you have new friend,” says a large man with gold in
his
smile.

“Hello, Vlad
,” I reply leaving the beggar to his night among the cardboard boxes.

“We go for a drink.”

It wasn’t a question. I accompany the bald giant to one of the less respectable bars in town.

Vlad is relishing the opportunity of a rematch with the Polish fighter, and his moroseness from our last meeting has entirely evaporated. The scratches on his face are, however, still highly visible.

He tells me in graphic detail exactly what he is going to do to his opponent, as if he is addressing a connoisseur of the kick-boxing sport rather than a PI that just wants a few beers to forget his troubles. But I don’t care. I’m glad of any company, even that of a psychotic Russian.

“Hey, Braddock, maybe I come to see you soon for some business, yes?”

“What kind of business
exactly
are you engaged in here, Vlad? You never did tell me.”

“Ah, we Russians are taking over the world, my friend.”

“And you’re starting with
Thailand
?” I ask sarcastically.

“You might say I am in the import-export business,” he says. “But
special
products. Very special, if you understand me.”

“I don’t, but never mind. Come and see me whenever I can help.”
Like bailing you out of jail, probably.
He nods and asks for one of my business cards, although I’m sure I’ve already given him one.

“We need a man who can speak good Thai, and who understands how local people think.”

“Then it sounds like I’m your man,” I reply and order more beer. I neither know nor at this point care who ‘we’ are.

Walking back up the main street later someone steps out in front of me and asks me if I want a taxi. I recognise Sinclair’s employee, Kwanchai Ramsuwan, and he apparently
doesn’t
recognise me. He is also clearly moonlighting with one of the Smiley Cars hire vehicles – that is not an official taxi. I give him a polite ‘no’ and move on, before unobtrusively noting the details of the car he is standing beside.

Some memory of a taxi tickles in the back of my head. Wasn’t there a Sherlock Holmes story where the murderer turned out to be a cab driver?
A Study in Scarlet
, was it?

My main
conundrum about the burning murders is how the murderer transported his victims to the killing site. How he persuaded them to go there. How he avoided their suspicions being raised. Why the dog didn’t bark.

Getting into a taxi, no
-one would feel threatened by that, would they?

Even if the
driver was about to beat your head in.

*       *       *       *       *

When I arrive home Wayan has already turned in but Claire is sitting waiting for me in the study reading Henry James’
Turn of the Screw
.

“Ah, so her ladyship is back,” I say.

“Looks like we both are. I take it no-one is outside watching the house tonight?” she asks.

I deposit the camera bag on the desk and slump down on the chair.

“No.”

“Any idea who it was? Should we be worried?”

“As to the first question,” I reply reaching into one of the desk drawers to take out Sinclair’s box file, “I may be able to tell you in a couple of minutes. As to the second –” I hesitate a moment, “– I don’t think so.”

“You don’t
think
so. That’s reassuring.”

I stop unpacking the box file and look at her.

“I’m not in the mood for banter tonight, Claire,” I state bluntly. “Would you care to tell me how long you’ll be staying with us this time? Just so that I know.”

“You usually enjoy a bit of banter,” she responds evasively.

I go back to the file and find the sheet showing the details of the Smiley Cars fleet.

“What’s wrong?” Claire persists. “Did things go badly in Bangkok?”

“Not at all,” I respond casually. “In fact it was all pretty good. I had a big raunchy sex session with Kat Charoenkul. Biting, scratching, the lot.”

“Well, that was entirely predictable, David. Anything else?”

“And a rather nice blow job from a working girl in Patpong.” I can feel my irritation rising at her coolness.

“Didn’t you put her on her back too?”

“No. I couldn’t. She was having her period.”

“Shame. Although I’m surprised you’d let a little thing like that stop you.”

I crack. “Don’t you give a fuck about anything anymore, Claire?” I say, suddenly furious.

“Times have changed, David. And
yes
, I’ve changed. Does my being here give you anything? No, it doesn’t. Does your being here give me anything? No, it doesn’t. Whoever you choose to screw is no longer of any concern to me. How can it be? It’s not like you and I are ever going to have sex again, is it?”

“Just shut up, Claire.”

“
Well, is it?
”

I stare at her then look down at my hands. They are shaking. I am too angry to speak. I don’t trust myself to say anything
more.

Claire stands up and walks slowly to the door.

“I guess that just about wraps it up. For tonight, at least. Yes?” She sounds sad.

I can’t look at her. I nod. When I lift my head she has gone.

I get up and fling open the door to the terrace. I need fresh air but the night tastes bitter and overcooked. I take some deep breaths nonetheless and light a cigarette to calm the fluttering in my ribcage.

Once I am semi-calm I go back into the study and sit down at my desk.
I am thinking about Kwanchai Ramsuwan moonlighting in rental cars.

I take out the paper that Charoenkul had given me this afternoon and compare the car registration number on it w
ith the list of Smiley Cars rental vehicles. I check it twice, but it is not on the list. And that can only mean one thing.

The car parked outside my house was Kenneth Sinclair’s private vehicle.

11

“I’ve got a red hot heart

And your heart’s as blue as the blood in your veins

I say there’s fire down below

You say it’s only smoke and ashes baby
”

Tracy Chapman, Smoke and Ashes

While I’m eating breakfast Wayan hands me a
white envelope she says she found under the door early this morning. It’s one of
those
envelopes. I can visualise the twice-folded A4 sheet inside it. This does not infuse me with feelings of unmitigated delight.

Since I’m not about to read the contents in front of Wayan, I leave the envelope on the table
propped up against the croissant basket. It looks at me disdainfully while I finish my coffee, but I ignore it as best I can.

I can handle the suspense for about five minutes before I have to take my second cup of coffee and the odious missive to the study. I close the door behind me and tear the envelope open without bothering to dust it. No point unless I’m going to ink Wayan’s fingers to compare prints, which I’m not.

The letter says

IT HAS BEEN FUN WITH MR. AND MRS. C AND IT MIGHT BE AGAIN

BUT THE WIFE I’M MORE INTERESTED IN IS YOUR WIFE

This writer is some piece of work, that’s for damn sure. He’s been leading me and the Charoenkuls up the garden path and back down again. Whatever is the reason behind this campaign of psychological warfare, this guy – or girl –
has identified systematically where my weak spots are, and how to exploit them.

It’s either someone who knows me very well or is an outrage
ously lucky guesser. I’d be foolish to assume the latter.

Who are my enemies? Who is so pissed with me that they would resort to premeditated acts of malice? Who do I know with that sort of warped mind? Who can possibly know this sort of stuff about me?

Wait a minute. What do they actually
know
? How much am I reading into this?

I take out the four letters and look at them all.

The first one,
HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT?
,
is a fairly common English phrase, as is the second,
WIVES CAN BE A PROBLEM
. The letter to Charoenkul which the Chief took away, (
YOUR WIFE IS UNFAITHFUL
), the one to Kat, (
THE INDO-CHINA INTERNATIONAL, BANGKOK, IS DAVID BRADDOCK’S FAVOURITE HOTEL
) and today’s missive, all on reflection look like they could have been cut and pasted out of some language phrase book, merely substituting the odd word.

Is the writer even an English speaker?
Maybe not.

Does the writer really know about my affair with Kat? Almost certainly.

What does he/she know about
my
wife? Or is he/she just shooting in the dark? No idea.

So to summarise: one ‘maybe not’, one ‘almost certainly’ and one ‘no idea’. I suppose that’s progress. But I’m still just reactive, waiting for the next move.

Based on the people who know or might have reason to suspect my affair with Kat, that makes the letter-writer most likely either Charoenkul or Kat herself. Charoenkul is just sadistic enough to have cooked up something like this as a mental torture prelude to a more physical torture. And Kat’s general behaviour recently has been reckless in the extreme: I can’t even imagine what has prompted it.

I suppose the only other person who might know is ...

No, that’s just plain ridiculous. If the anonymous writer is
her
, then I might as well just top myself straightaway because there really is no hope left for humanity.

Now I
really am in a bad mood. I need to vent my spleen on someone, and I know just the person.

I call Sinclair and tell him I
’ll meet him at his house in an hour.

When I pull up on the Northern Neanderthal’s drive I take a moment to check the registration plate on the black SUV. As I surmised, it matches the numbers on Charoenkul’s paper.

The doddery maid shows me into the garden where the man himself is taking a late breakfast in his sala. His head is wrapped in a bandana, in the style of Willie Nelson. He appears done in but perks up when he sees me approaching.

“Ah, David, good morning. Would you like a coffee or something?”

“No thanks.”

The maid shuffles off and I light a Marlboro. Sinclair pushes his half-eaten plate of rice to one side and looks at me expectantly.

“Your voice sounded urgent on the phone,” he says. “What’s up?”

I take a long draw on my cigarette and feel a momentary impulse to beat his face in.

“You tell me.”

His eyebrows and forehead wrinkle in a pantomime of puzzlement but there is wariness in his eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, to kick off,” I say calmly
, “let’s talk about why you were parked outside my house the night before last.”

At first
I think Sinclair is going to deny it and claim some egregious mistake; but his resolve withers and a look of profound weariness takes possession of his face. He stares at me while the fan whirrs above us.

“Particularly,” I go on, “
as you
knew
I was in Bangkok at the time.”

He clears his throat and utters a quiet, “Yes.”

“Unless you’d like to come clean first on this charade of an assignment you’re employing me on.”

I wait. The Geordie heaves a big sigh, rises unsteadily to his feet and appears to come to a decision. He
slumps heavily against one of the sala’s support posts and passes a tired hand across his face. Then he raises his head and surveys the garden as if he hopes to find the appropriate words written on the greenery.

“If I was a smoker,” he begins, “I suppose now would be the time for a cigarette.”

I offer him my packet. “Be my guest,” I say. “Never too late to start.”

He gives a small shake of the head before glancing quickly at me than away again.

“How much do you know about me? About my history, I mean?” he asks shyly.

I
offer a non-committal shrug.

He scratches his neck nervously, then launches off.

“I can tell you that when I first came to this island I was a very angry man. A very angry man,” he reflects. “You see, I’d been badly burned by my first wife who ran off with another man. Then she made it hard for me to see the kids. Looking back, it made me very bitter and distrustful of people.” He pauses before continuing. “So I came to Samui to start over. But what I found here initially just made me more cynical: girls who are sweet to your face but are really only interested in your wallet.

“
I’ve never really been that good with women. I get tongue-tied, don’t know what to say. My first wife, Joy, was my childhood sweetheart. She was a bit of a bunny-boiler but I married her anyway. When I came here … well, I don’t need to tell
you
. You know how the girls are. Hookers were not what I wanted.” He stops again.

“I’m listening,” I prompt.

“Anyway, then a miracle happened. Or at least it seemed like a miracle to me. I met Nok. She was different. She was kind and sincere and she really cared about me. And I fell for her. I mean I really did. It wasn’t like with Joy. This was …
love
. Not a word I’ve used very often,” he adds.

“Within a year we were married, and then our boy came along. I’d never been happier. Life was good. I was alive again. Everything that had gone before, all the disappointments didn’t matter.

“And then –” Sinclair rips the words from some dark place within himself. “It all ended.”

“How?” I ask, although
what I’ve heard so far chimes with Charlie’s story. I know what’s coming next, but I need to hear him say it.

“Nok died. She was killed in a hit-and-run accident. The bastard didn’t even stop. He was never caught. I put adverts in the papers to try and find the driver, offered rewards, everything. All that produced was a load of slime
balls coming out of the woodwork to squeeze Baht out of me. It made me crazy. And nothing, nothing came of any of it.

“Things settled down for me after a while. I needed to think about my boy. I’d lost the love of my life but he’d lost his mother. I buckled down, worked, tried not to think about things.”

“But then a few months ago it all started again, right?” I say.

Sinclair looks at me sharply. “I don’t know how you know, but yes. Some Thai guy got in touch with me, said he knew about the accident, that he could help. All the craziness started again in my head. I knew it was all nonsense, that it had always been nonsense before. But I kept thinking
what if
.

And then –”

He breaks off and shakes his head.

“What?”

“Then I met someone who put things into perspective. I decided to stop torturing myself. I told myself that whatever happened Nok wasn’t coming back. What good could it do now dragging over old dead coals? I started to think maybe I could put my wife’s death behind me. I would never find another Nok; I knew that. That would be impossible.”

“You met someone?”

“Yes. Someone kind and open. Someone who took care of my little boy when I was late collecting him from school one day; who took an interest in him. Someone
normal
.”

“You’re talking about Wayan.”

He hesitates before answering. Then he nods.

“Go on,” I say.

“I started thinking that maybe my boy could have a mother again. Perhaps I could have a companion. All sorts of notions.”

“Sounds like your next word is going to be
but
.”

“I didn’t know what the arrangement was between you and Wayan. I didn’t know whether, well
–”

“Whether I was fucking her?” I
say brutally, and watch him wince.

“I came up with this scheme that maybe I could get to know her better and make sure I didn’t make a fool of myself if you were –” He makes a gesture of hopelessness.

“If I were conveniently out of the way some evenings? Like if I was sitting on a porch in Bang Rak watching your damn car compound?”

“I also thought that maybe if I talked to you, got to know you better then I might be able to sense whether you and Wayan were romantically involved.”

“What a quaint way of putting it,” I fume. “So you must have been delighted when I told you I was going to Bangkok. It meant you could stalk Wayan without any hindrance. Skulking around outside my house at night, scaring the poor woman half to death.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” he interjects. “I’m not stalking her
. I’d never do that. Never. I’ve far too much respect for her. Listen, the fact is I was outside your house trying to get up the courage to ring the bell and talk to her.”

I sneer at this.

“It’s true. Look, you’ve no reason to believe me, I know. I know I’ve behaved badly. I’ve gone about this all wrong. I’ve tried to be clever and just ended up looking like an idiot. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“And you rope your employee in on the scheme too to act as a decoy. He must think I’m a real mug.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, looking puzzled.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “Are you telling me you didn’t send Kwanchai to follow me in Chaweng yesterday evening to make sure I saw him offering his services as a taxi driver?”

Sinclair looks gobsmacked. “I swear I don’t know anything about that. I’d never take him into my confidence on anything private like this. If Kwanchai is touting for taxi business then that means the little shit really is taking my cars out and moonlighting. I had no idea.”

“Well there’s dramatic irony for you. Life imitates art; or in this case,
artifice
. Anyway, never mind about Kwanchai,” I continue not wishing to get sidetracked, “if you wanted to know about Wayan’s relationship with me why not just ask her? Why go through all this elaborate pretence?”

He puts up his hands in frustration. “And what exactly would I say? It’s not exactly something that you can easily drop into a casual conversation
outside the school gates.”

He has a point there.

“Besides,” he sighs. “I told you. I have no small talk with women. I feel awkward around them. I never know what to say.”

“So it’s more natural for you to hang around in the dark watching them through binoculars.”

“That’s not fair,” he objects. Then he sighs deeply. “But I know what you’re saying and I know how it looks. You’re right. I surrender. I should never have tried to deceive a private detective. I’m a fool.”

“And what is more you’ve tried to make me look like a fool too.”

“That was never my intention.”