Everyone Burns (35 page)

I shrug. “It’s really none of my business. Although as far as PC is concerned, this information might be useful leverage if ever I need to get th
at big ugly bastard off
my
back in the future.

“I don’t suppose you have any other ti
tbits of local gossip for me? That Police Chief Charoenkul is a cross-dresser, perhaps?”

“No.”

He stubs out his cigarette, and I follow suit. I take it this signals the end of our conversation. I might
look
calm but I can’t wait to get out of the room. I stand up.

“Thank you for your time
then, Mr. Rattanakorn,” I say with a deferential bow of the head. “I won’t be troubling you again.”

He remains seated. “Thank
you, Mr. Braddock,” he replies. “However, I will say that I may be troubling
you
at some point.” He picks up on my unease and smiles. “But in a
good
way.”

*       *       *       *       *

On my drive home to change out of my damp, fear-smelling clothing I reflect
that encounter went as well as could be expected
.

With luck
, Rattanakorn will gently disengage from Kat and I’ll be back to number
two
in the queue. Maybe even number one if Charoenkul is still distracted elsewhere.

When I decided to meet the
jâo phâw it was supposedly on the basis that I was seeking to de-risk my personal situation vis-à-vis Papa Doc. I wonder now whether I was really looking to rid myself of a rival for Kat’s attention. If that is the case, then I am even more reckless than my mistress.

Wayan is pottering around when I arrive at the house.

As is the custom after one of my episodes, we first become very close and then start to feel self-conscious about touching each other, even casually. Having had her in – or rather
on
– my bed for the night, with her arms around my almost-naked body, it is a strange tightrope of repressed intimacy that we tread in the days that follow. It’s almost like the awkwardness that teenagers feel in the presence of the opposite sex; trying not to cross an invisible line.

It also occurs to me that Wayan must have seen the scars and bruises on my torso from my Bangkok wrestling match with Kat. I wonder what my Balinese Princess made of
those
.

She seems shy and avoids direct eye contact as she tells me an envelope has arrived while I was out. My first thought is
another anonymous letter
, but then she passes me a large official-looking manila envelope which I’m guessing contains more burning murders stuff.

I sit down in the study and pull out the contents of the envelope: slim pickings, only two sheets of paper.

The first is typed, not even addressed to me and with no preamble. Although it’s clearly from Charoenkul, he is covering himself – there would be credible deniability if it ever fell into anyone else’s hands.

It reads:

Lewis Carroll

Forensics show traces of benzodiazepines

which
suggests victim was drugged.

Cause of death trauma to the head.

No usable DNA or trace samples.

Tyre tracks inconclusive.

That’s
it
.

As it happens I know a bit about benzodiazepines (
‘BZDs’), owing to a case I was involved in a couple of years back where a backpacker’s drink had been spiked by a bargirl who subsequently robbed him. BZDs have an unsavoury reputation as date rape drugs, although their
intended
use is for anxiety conditions and insomnia. One of the BDZs – temazepam – is a major recreational drug in parts of South East Asia, and is a Schedule II controlled drug in Thailand; making possession and distribution illegal. Another BDZ – midazolam – is water-soluble and is also available in a liquid form. This latter drug has a rapid onset, and has the advantage that, although it only works for a short time it becomes undetectable in the blood after a few hours.

Forget
Rohypnol
, which popular culture holds to be the date rape drug of choice. Based on my research, BDZs are second only to alcohol as the most common way of putting your victim out.
Combined
with alcohol, they are even more potent and dangerous.

(If BDZs are not
up your street, incidentally, you could instead try gamma-hydroxybutyric – ‘GHB’ – but if so, you’ll have to slip it into something with a bit of flavour, otherwise your intended mark might notice the salty taste. And, since you need relatively higher doses to induce unconsciousness, be cautioned that detection is easier.)

I wonder if drugging is part of our murderer’s usual MO. Carroll’s body was relatively ‘fresh’ when discovered which may be why forensics found the drug: or maybe they just didn’t test the other bodies. I don’t recall anything about this in Charoenkul’s extracts.

If the victims were all immobilised, then they probably weren’t brought to the sites of their death voluntarily. Which means they might
not
have known their killer. So much for some of my earlier theories.

The second sheet of paper is a
photostat copy of Lewis Carroll’s passport.

Wait.

Hold on.

Wait a minute.

I know this face
.

I’ve spent time sitting next to this man at the bar in the
Ocean Pearl
. It’s the guy who was trying unsuccessfully to chat up Jingjai. The uncommunicative Mancunian.

I’d stood over his corpse and I hadn’t recognised him. Hardly surprising though
, considering he had no face. His own mother wouldn’t have recognised that obscenely destroyed, burnt thing.

And with a start I realise something else. If I hadn’t taken th
e call from Nittha Rattanakorn that evening; and if I hadn’t been so eager to leave the bar prematurely and meet up with her; then perhaps Lewis Carroll might still be alive. Because
that
was the night he died.

Other thoughts begin crashing in
side my head in big, ugly waves.

I snatch up my second-best camera bag and rush past a surprised-looking Wayan on my way to the front-door.

I haven’t even changed my sweaty shirt, but there’s no time.

I must talk to Peter Ashley
now
.

*       *       *       *       *

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pool and sunbathing deck of Lotus Blossom Villas
as I make my way through the surfeit of blubbery human skin flopped across the loungers. Not all the bathers are fat, but most of them are. Obesity: our true
Zeitgeist
.

Peter Ashley, by contrast, is looking trim, muscled and worried, in equal measure. He is wearing swimming trunks, sitting hunched over what looks like a fruit-juice and gazing unhappily into space. He has lots of tattoos, I notice, and he probably has yet more beneath the faded hotel towel draped across his shoulders. A look of relief floods his face when he sees me.

“Let’s go to the bar, Peter, and find a quiet corner to talk. You might want to change first; the mosquitoes will be out now.”

He grabs his clothes, slips on some flip-flops and shuffles off hurriedly into t
he toilets.

I set up a couple of beers and borrow some insect repellent from the barman. He lights a coil under the table as an added precaution.

Ashley arrives quickly, clad in a khaki tee-shirt and cargo pants: he still looks army, in spite of the fact that he is wearing flip-flops. He is clearly very impatient. Sitting around the pool most of the day waiting for me has made him fidgety. I hope he’s not going to be difficult.

“Before we go any further,” I say, “I need you to clarify
some things for me.”

“Well,
I’ve had some time to think today and I need
you
to clarify some things for me,” he says tersely. “Like what exactly is your interest in my brother’s death? And why would
you
be investigating it? If you’re a private detective that means somebody must be paying for your time. I know I’m not, so who is? How do I know you’re not some journalist or something?”

“All fair questions. OK, let me tell you what I know about Anthony’s death. Then you can judge for yourself whether I’m just some interfering busybody.”

I try to sound and appear patient, although I’m not. My thoughts are racing, making connections. I’m itching to move on to the meat of the discussion.

I recount
speedily what I remember of the circumstances of his brother’s murder, endeavouring all the while to sound professional and non-judgmental. He listens intently, nodding occasionally as I talk.

“That’s pretty much right,” he says. “But you still haven’t told me why
you
’re involved in any of this, or how you got to find out all these details. None of it made the papers.”

“I owe
a favour to a senior policeman here on Samui. He’s asked me to help out on the investigation with some psychological profiling and other stuff; so I’ve seen extracts from the case files. This policeman’s career may well depend on how the case is resolved.”

At the mention of the police Ashley snorts derisively.

“Listen, I met the policeman heading up the investigation at Bophut Police Station two days ago. What’s-his-name? Katchai? A right smug bastard.”

“I’m not talking about Katchai. He’s not the one I owe a favour to. But before we get
any further into Thai police politics, there are a couple of things
I
need to know from
you
.”

He looks like he might become objectionable but instead he shrugs.

“Fire away then.”

“First, what are you doing back on Samui? And how long have you been here?”

He takes a large swig of beer, and I light a Marlboro.

“A few days ago,” he begins, “I saw the reports in the international news about the murder of two Europeans on the island, and an inference about the bodies being burned. My first thought was that one must be my brother, and that
finally
they were going to carry out a serious investigation. But then I learned that the two dead guys were a Dutchman and some other Brit – which meant there was
still
a cover-up going on over my brother’s murder.

“So I caught the first flight out here that I could and pitched up at Bophut Police Station. I made a loud nuisance of myself until they eventually let me meet the policeman in charge of the investigation.
I told this guy Katchai who I was and that I might have information to help him in his search for the murderer.”

Ashley twists his mouth in contempt.

“Do you know what that bastard said to me?”

“No,” I say quietly.

“He had the fucking cheek to say that my brother’s death was in no way related to the other two murders, and that effectively no active investigation was currently going on into Anthony’s killing. He also practically threatened me that if I made any waves I would be – how did he put it? – ‘dealt with severely’.”

“The police are in a double bind. They can’t talk about Anthony’s death now, it’s been too long. They have to pretend there have only been two burning murders.”

“It’s a bloody disgrace.”

“Never mind about th
at now, Peter. Tell me about the photograph of the girl on your phone. Did you mention it to Katchai?”

“No. I didn’t get the chance. Now it’s too late. The
phone’s gone. Stolen.”

“Who is she? Is it someone Anthony was sleeping with here?”

Ashley shakes his head.

“No. He spent a lot of time with her in the evenings, but it never got that far. He never introduced me, although he must have taken a few photos of her on my
phone. I remember there was one evening he borrowed my phone because there was something wrong with the SIM on his. That must have been the evening he snapped the pictures. I didn’t realise I had them on there until later. And I can’t even recollect the girl’s name. I was more interested in getting laid than in Anthony’s chats, you see,” he adds regretfully.

“Do you think you would recognise her if you saw her?”

He looks at me.

“I’ve only ever seen her photograph,” he says, “
but yes, I think I would.”

I take my second-best camera from its bag, and fast-forward the viewer through the digital images until I reach the photographs taken by my teenage helper a few days ago.

I show the pictures of Jingjai to Ashley.

“Is this the girl?” I ask.