Everyone Burns (7 page)

He sighed theatrically and rubbed his face before leaning forward and whispering confidentially
, “My wife thinks I work too hard. What do you think of that?”

“She’s probably right. Wives usually are.”

A beat. Then, “Yes. Yes, they usually are.”

He pushed back his chair, walked over to the bookcase and picked up a photograph of himself holding a golf trophy.

“I have so little time to myself these days. Responsibilities, you understand.” He waved the frame at me. “I was Island Champion for three years running. A record. Now I scarcely have the time to play a round.”

Of golf? Or with your
mia nói?

He replaced the photograph wistfully and moving behind me put a hand on my shoulder.

“So I need to ask a favour of you.”

“A favour?”

The hand stayed on the shoulder and squeezed slightly.

“For our friendship’s sake.”

Charoenkul shifted back behind the desk, positioned his elbows on it and made a steeple with his fingers.

“A situation has arisen. One which requires the utmost delicacy and discretion.”

Here it comes, I thought.

“Oh?”

“I can rely on your discretion, Braddock? That our discussion is confidential?”

“Of course, Chief Charoenkul.”

He paused again a moment, as if choosing his next words carefully. The aircon sounded very loud in that space, and in spite of its efforts I could feel the sweat under my arms and in the small of my back.

“Two days ago,” he began, “
the body of a farang was discovered in a coconut grove outside of Lamai. The body had some interesting and unusual characteristics. It was fully clothed and lying face down. The back of the head had been beaten in with a blunt metal object, and the corpse was severely burned.”

“Sunburned, you mean?”

“No. I mean it had been doused with petrol and set alight.”

“Not a suicide, then?”

He ignored this and went on, “Naturally, I have every confidence that my men could clear up this matter in due course. However, the Special Investigations Unit from Surat Thani is involved, as can happen in such cases. Consequently, they are carrying out an independent investigation, which is ... inconvenient, and bad for local morale among my force. We have been relegated to a minor co-ordination role in the proceedings. This I do not like.”

I bet you don’t.

“So far we have managed the situation with the media, but tomorrow the incident will appear in the newspapers. Perhaps it may even make it to national television. I expect the journalists will play up the sensational aspects in their usual irresponsible fashion, oblivious to the damage it will do to our tourist industry on the island. I can only imagine the populist headlines. Because of the Surat Thani involvement, I will not even be leading when we make press releases and – Buddha forbid – if we have to hold news conferences.”

Ouch. That’s got to hurt.

“It is bad for Samui,” Charoenkul concluded.

“And not so good for the poor bastard who had his head beaten in either.”

“No. That also, of course, is a tragedy,” he responded with his trademark empathy. He continued on, having dismissed the victim as a barely-relevant annoyance. “The Surat Thani officer in charge of the investigation is an old colleague of mine. He has at his disposal forensic and other resources that are denied to us here at this remote outpost of the Royal Thai Police. Ah, what I could achieve here if we had that funding.”

Clearly he doesn’t like this ‘old colleague’. Possibly he is a rival for the promotion that Charoenkul craves: a nice posting to Bangkok, where the money-making opportunities are greater. Although Papa Doc already has so many rackets his game should be tennis, not golf.

“However, we must deal with the world as it is, rather than as we would wish it to be,” he intoned philosophically. “But I am neglecting my duties as a host. Let me get you some tea.”

He barked loudly to his secretary, and my overstretched nerves caused me to jump in my chair, in spite of my intention not to appear intimidated. His secretary cautiously put her nose round the door, and he gave her the drinks order in his authoritarian fashion.
The nose vanished.

“So, Braddock, in summary –” he smiled charmingly, “– I want to employ your services as an investigator.” This smelled like a trap.

“But Chief Charoenkul,” I said sweetly, “you know very well I am not an ‘investigator’. I don’t have the requisite papers.”

He laughed. “Let us not split hairs, my friend. The permit I have so kindly arranged for you gives you a certain – shall we say –
latitude. I merely want you to assist me on this matter.”

“When you say
employ my services
, I presume you are not contemplating any financial arrangement.”

“You presume correctly. This is one way you can repay your adopted country for all the benefits it has bestowed on you. Indeed, for all the benefits it may yet bestow. I feel sure you value my good offices with Immigration on your behalf, and you would not wish to disappoint me over such a small favour.”

So there it was: help him or get booted unceremoniously out of Thailand.

(
Incidentally, I am still not convinced this is not about Kat. Papa Doc could be playing a long game, while building a better and more powerful mousetrap. He appears to be viewing the
mia nói
secret as a closed episode, meaning that my bargaining chip has gone. Either that or his poker face is better than mine.)

His secretary appeared with the tea, and we sat in silence until she left. I sipped the tea thoughtfully as he watched me.

“Well?” he said.

“Well, forgive my candour, Chief, but if this Surat Thani professional is already investigating the case, I don’t really see why you need me. Besides, won’t he be pissed at my involvement? I am just some
farang amateur, and murder is hardly my area of expertise.”

“My colleague Katchai
,” he remarked acidly, looking like a bulldog chewing on a wasp, “will not be aware of your role in this matter. It will be our little secret.” He let the silence hang heavy in the air.

“So what do you want me to do exactly?”

He relaxed and put down his tea. “Good. Braddock, you have a certain reputation as a man who knows about psychology, and you know how to keep your mouth shut. Furthermore, as a European, you may have some insight into the victim that we poor Thais lack. I want you to do some psychological profiling for me.”

“Of the killer?”

“Yes, and of the victim. Both may be relevant. Know the victim and you may find the perpetrator. That is sound logic, is it not?”

“It may be. Unless, for instance, it is some random murder associated with a robbery, in which case the only connection of one to the other is that of time and place. Was the victim robbed?”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, “he was not. A charred wallet was found on him, with quite a lot of burnt cash and two melted credit cards in it. The motive was not robbery.” He paused.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me something, Chief Charoenkul?”

“Ah,” he grinned, “So at last I have awoken your detective instincts. Excellent. As well as the profiling, I will welcome your insights in this matter.”

I waited. He became more serious.

“The victim’s name was Hannes Boehme, a 36-year-old Dutchman, in Samui on holiday on his own. He had been here about two weeks when he was killed. As far as we know, he had no criminal record and no known criminal associations. When a girl stumbled by chance over his body, he had been dead about a day-and-a-half. The night of his death, someone fitting his description was seen drinking in Chaweng, but we can’t be sure it was him. We have no witnesses, and the forensic evidence is not very helpful since the body was so badly burned. The place where he was found was behind a tree, only a few metres from a dirt road; but the ground was hard from the lack of rain, so we have no information from tyre-tracks. That’s about all we’ve got: a dead end.”

“I’m sure you realise that if the murderer was a visitor to the island, he’s probably long gone, and your chances of finding him are zero.”

Papa Doc looked a little uncomfortable.

“We have reason to believe that the killer may live on the island.”

“Why is that?”

He cleared his throat. “Because the murder bears a remarkable resemblance to another one we had here three months ago.”

I was aghast. “You mean to tell me that someone else has had his head bashed in, and been set on fire? Another farang?”

Charoenkul nodded.

“But there was nothing about that in the papers. I’m sure I would remember. I would
definitely
remember.”

“The incident never made the papers.”

“You hushed it up?” I asked incredulously.

“It was not deemed to be in the best interests of the public to create a panic,” he said stiffly. “The peak tourist season was coming up and we did not want visitors to be unnecessarily apprehensive. Samui is a safe place.”

“Not for Hannes Boehme it wasn’t.”

“Well, we see that now, naturally.”

“So let me get this clear. You dismiss the first killing as a one-off event and convince the mainland police of your viewpoint on this; all the while keeping it out of the press. Then there is a second murder – which can’t be a copycat killing since no-one knows about the first – and you are forced to act. No wonder the Surat Thani boys are all over you like a rash.”

Papa Doc looked discomfited. “That’s a pretty crude summary,” he snorted.

“But basically accurate?”

“You could say so.”

“So will the first murder hit the press tomorrow also?”

“No. Only the second one. We don’t want people thinking there is some Western-style serial killer on the loose.”

“There may be a Western-style serial killer on the loose, for all you know.” I thought for a moment. “Do you know of any connection between the dead men? Other than their both being
farangs
, presumably?”

He shook his head, “No. The first one was English, not Dutch. He was here with his brother on vacation. It was the brother that raised the alarm.” Charoenkul looked annoyed for a moment. “His brother was troublesome and tried to get the
newspapers involved. But in the end, good sense prevailed and the matter was kept quiet. Fortunately, the brother is no longer on Samui.”

Troublesome? I’d be troublesome if someone had just murdered a member of my family.

“Anyway, now you know the story,” he said finally, and with a matter-of-factness that irritated me.

“If I’m going to be any use in all this, I’ll need more information,” I muttered testily. “What else can you give me on the victims and the forensics?”

“I will have copies of the files sent round to you tomorrow. But I need your undertaking that you will treat them confidentially.”

“Well, I won’t be leaving them around on the back seat of my car, if that’s what you mean,” I spat out rather spitefully.

He recognised the unsubtle reference to our early acquaintance and said sulkily, “Of course not.”

“And you’re not expecting me to be part of some cover-up?”

His face looked outraged, and for a moment I thought I’d gone too far, but he controlled his temper and replied icily, “In the first place, as I explained, the investigation is not mine to run. My colleagues over at Surat Thani want this business cleared up properly. Secondly, given the fact that our local journalists are already on to the recent murder, a degree of transparency is inevitable from this point. There will be no cover-up.”

“Although you haven’t told the press about the first murder –”

“That is mere detail.”

“– but you have told
me
.”

He looked up with a start, as the realisation hit him that involving me may not have been such a good idea after all; that he may inadvertently have given me some leverage over him again.

I wondered whether Buddha’s expression was like that when he saw the morning star and the thunderbolt of enlightenment hit him. I doubted it. Actually, Charoenkul looked more like he had eaten a bad oyster.

The Chief recovered quickly, however, and purred in his most insinuating tone, “M
r. Braddock, I know you are a man of integrity. We would not be having this conversation otherwise. I merely ask for some goodwill and assistance on your part.”

I sipped at my tea, but it had gone cold. I put the cup down again. He was looking at me expectantly.

“Very well,” I said resignedly, “I am your creature. How is this arrangement going to work?”

He rubbed his hands cheerfully.

“Secrecy is the essence of our endeavour. No-one must know about this little favour you are doing for me. It would not be good for either of us.”

“That much I gathered.”

“Then we are on the same page. As I’ve said, I’ll let you have copies of the files, and share with you any progress that Katchai and his team make.”