Hungry Ghosts (20 page)

Charoenkul felt a brief twinge of conscience.
But
w
hat other suspects do I have?
He asked himself somewhat disingenuously.
Anyway, justice must follow its course.

His secretary appeared with the tea.

“Mrs. Tathip is here,” she said.

Papa Doc groaned.

22

In Transit

If Bumibol Chaldrakun could have been privy to the thoughts going through the head of the Samui Police Chief he would have felt a lot more relaxed.

As it was, what he experienced was nothing akin to serenity.

He was wandering barefoot along the beach at Hua Hin
, a resort town some one hundred and fifty kilometres south of Bangkok. His bulky frame attracted little or no attention from the Thai and European holiday-makers respectively crouching under the large gaily-colored umbrellas or sunning themselves on the yellow sand. Ahead of him in the distance was the headland of Kao Takiap, on which clung a Buddhist temple delineating the southern extent of Hua Hin Beach.

Bumibol
wore a large sun-hat and shades, his chin sporting a day’s stubble. A beach-ball fell at his feet and he kicked it back absent-mindedly. Stopping at a stall he bought a bottle of water and slumped onto a faded white chair.

The big Thai knew he shouldn’t be out in the open but he could no longer bear the closed-in feeling his dingy hotel room
produced in him. He needed to think, and to think he needed air.

He replayed the events of the previous hours in his head.

Having driven the SUV to Na Thon, he had just caught the last ferry to Surat Thani and had stood mute on the moonlit deck watching the lights of Samui recede. Behind him he had left death, horror and a ticking time bomb of forensic evidence which, he had no doubt, would cause his undoing.

The ferry had docked around half-past-three in the
morning and he had had to wait anxious hours at the railway station before he could board the train to Hua Hin. He had spent the seven-hour journey dozing fitfully.

His instinct told him not to return directly to Bangkok. He wanted a day or two of anonymity while he collected his thoughts and worked out what to do next. Trains and buses were frequent from Hua Hin to the capital so he could get there quickly as and when he needed to. Accordingly, he was booked into an
anonymous guest-house – which grandiosely referred to itself as a hotel – though after an hour the shrinking walls had driven him outside.

Bumibol was out of clean clothing and the cash he had with him was dwindling. He didn’t want to use an ATM until he was back in Bangkok, since that would reveal his location if the police were monitoring his account. Weariness beyond reason consumed him. He spat and lit a cigarette.

Were they looking for him yet?

The Thai s
ettled his feet in the soft sand and breathed deeply, attempting to relieve the constriction circled around his chest like a band of iron. He took off his sunglasses and squinted in the bright sunlight.

What had he been thinking?

In the past he had been prone to dangerous temper outbursts but nothing approaching the severity of this recent madness.

Bumibol closed his eyes and waited for his brother’s spirit to materialize. But there was nothing save a ghostly dance of blurred retinal images. If he was lucky Preechap was at rest now that David Braddock was dead. He hoped so. He sensed the cool balm of sanity returning to his overheated imagination.

Now perhaps he could sleep again.

Now perhaps he could think about what to do.

Suddenly a picture of Braddock’s maid leapt into his mind, causing him to open his eyes quickly and shake his head. The woman …

He pushed
away the thought and gulped down some water.

On a nearby table was a copy of
the day’s
Thai Rath
. Bumibol picked up the newspaper and flicked through it. On an inside page was a small, sanitized report of Tathip’s death under the heading
Policeman Found Dead on Samui
. There were virtually no details. The story would inevitably have more prominent coverage in the Samui daily paper but at the national level it seemed it was not sufficiently interesting to warrant more space. Bumibol put the paper aside and turned to more immediate practical matters.

He would go into town and buy some food and clothing to replace the bloodied garments he had been obliged to discard. Then he intended to make his way back to his room and get as much sleep and rest as possible.

Equipped with a clear head, tomorrow he would call his boss, come clean with what had happened and see what support – if any – the Jade Dragons would be prepared to give him.

Bumibol was realistic enough to know that the chances of the gang being prepared to assist a member who had killed a policeman were slim.
However, this was his only potential lifeline and he had to reach out.

If nothing else,
he mused,
Tathip and Braddock are dead. My brother can rest now even if I cannot.

The fugitive brushed the sand from his feet, put on his shoes and heaved himself up. He turned his back
to the shimmering ocean and set off towards the town.

23

David Braddock’s Journal

When I first open my eyes it feels as though someone has stuck spikes in the side of them. The top of my head is lifting off and the back of it is beating with an insistent pulse. I momentarily hallucinate that a big policeman is about to pour petrol over me and set me alight. I squint at a bright light above me, and shield my eyes with my hand.

I try to breathe slowly to control the nausea that my tender, throbbing skull is inflicting on me.

Gradually my eyes become accustomed to the light, and I prop myself up on an elbow to take in my surroundings.

I am lying on a mattress on the floor of a small room whose walls are painted a sickly buttercup yellow. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling. To my right is a small window above which an ancient air conditioning unit coughs and burbles, struggling valiantly for life. Opposite is an open door into an Asian-style toilet, and to my left is another door – this one is closed.

My movement causes some dust to rise from the cement floor which in turn makes me cough, sending skewers of pain through my head. I ease myself carefully to my feet. My legs are shaky and I have to lean on the wall for support.

I examine myself as best I can. I am not wearing any shoes and my trouser belt and watch have been removed. I check my pockets: empty apart from a handkerchief. No cell phone, no keys and, worst of all, no lighter and cigarettes. I take out the handkerchief and gently dab the back of my head. No blood or at least no wet blood. Whatever hit me didn’t crack my
skull, although it hasn’t done the soft squishy bits inside any good.

I try the door handle. Of course it’s locked. The door looks pretty heavy-duty. My shoulder’s not going to go through it, that’s for sure.

The toilet is a hole in the floor and beside it sit a couple of loo rolls and a plastic tank in which floats a big scoop.

I have to stand on
tiptoe to look through the sealed window, but there is nothing to see; only a brick wall. The only thing it does tell me is that it is daylight. I wonder how long I’ve been out cold. Several hours at least. That suggests I was injected with something after I was knocked out since most periods of unconsciousness only last a matter of minutes.

There is a more interesting question than that, however.
Why am I still alive?

I have little doubt the Sangukhons have grabbed me. It’s a pity I wasn’t this insightful yesterday: I might be sleeping in a comfortable hotel room now rather than pacing an oversized broom
cupboard on Death Row.

I lower myself down carefully onto the lumpy mattress, feeling fragile and distinctly unheroic. I’m not entirely sure that I won’t be throwing up my guts in a minute. I try to think, but the guy in my head with the drum-kit is not making it easy.

Let’s take stock, shall we?
Chaldrakun’s brother is in all likelihood lurking around on Samui waiting to do something nasty to me – not that he’s likely to get the chance. He’ll have to join the queue. At least I have the consolation of knowing that Wayan is safe, even if she’s with Sinclair.

Options for escape?
I look around me. There’s nothing.

I decide to go for the subtle approach. I
get up again and pummel the door with my fists while demanding my release and yelling obscenities in Thai for what seems like an age. If there is anyone out there, I am being studiously ignored. None of this does my headache any good.

Next I fold up the sheet from the mattress and strap it around my right elbow for protection. I take a three-step running jump and strike my elbow against the window. It takes four attempts before I break the glass. I follow this up by shouting rather unimaginatively for help until my voice starts to go hoarse.

I slump back down on my makeshift bed. My head hurts. I need to rest awhile.

Hours have passed.

I have no way of knowing how many hours, but I can see through the broken window that the light is still strong.

It’
s later but still light.

I bang on the door for a while and shout some more.

I think about Wayan and wonder what she’s doing.

Shall I put my affairs in order?

And if so, why?

It’s strange when you start to contemplate your mortality. I feel unusually calm. Calmer than I have in a long time, in fact.
Waiting for Godot
comes to mind again. Nothing to be done.

I start to obsess about funny things, like what Anna had for breakfast this morning. Or Kat’s aversion to doing it the Greek way. Or who has been sending me anonymous letters. Or whether Katie’s boyfriend is suitable for her.

I’m never going to see my daughter again.

I’ve neglected her.

I close my eyes and conjure up the image of Claire. At first she is in a mist but as I focus the picture becomes clearer. She is dressed in summer clothes and standing at the French windows of my old library in England. From the perspective I deduce I am sitting behind my desk. She looks at me for a long while.

“It’s good to see you again, David.”

“It’s good to see you too. Even better to talk with you.”

“I thought when you burned my clothes we’d never talk again.”

I am silent, wondering how to respond.

“It’s all right,” she says. “Really, I understand.”

She walks across to me and perches on the desk.

“I see you everywhere,” I tell her.

Claire gives me a sad smile. “I know.”

I want to touch her but I know I can’t. My delusions don’t extend to tactile contact. At least not yet, they don’t.

“I’m sure you also know that I’m going mad. But that hardly matters now since I expect to be dead soon.”

“You’ve manoeuvred yourself into a real mess this time, my darling.” She laughs. “Kidnapped and murdered by Thai gangsters? Really, David, such melodrama.”

“At least I’ll soon be with you.”

“Do you believe that?” she asks, suddenly serious.

I pause and weigh up my answer while Claire studies me.

“No.” I exhale slowly. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“How old am I, David?”

“What?”

“How old am I now?”

“I don’t know. Early thirties, maybe?”

She gives a snort of mock-disgust. “Cradle snatcher. You’re almost old enough to be my father.”

“Hardly. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. It’s interesting that each time we meet I appear to be getting younger.”

“It’s a pity I can’t live another twenty years. Although that might get a bit sick, of course, with the school uniform and stuff.”

“You can put me in a school uniform now if you want,” she teases.

I shake my head. “Better not.”

“No? Not even as a condemned man’s last request?”

“No. Let me leave this life with a little dignity, eh?”

She stands and moves around the library, occasionally examining a book.

“Was there something particular you wanted to talk about, David?”

“Like what?”

“I thought perhaps you might want to talk to me about Anna.”

“About my sleeping with her, you mean?”

Claire looks at me quizzically.

“Oh no,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “There’s nothing more to be said on that subject.”

“Then what?”

“Well, how about your suspicion that she’s the one writing you those anonymous letters?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.”

I rise and cross slowly to the window. Outside it is sunny and the garden looks as I remember it; bright and alive. I half-expect to see Katie run across the lawn.

“If the last letter was written by someone who knows what they are talking about, then it has to be Anna,” I state carefully.

“
David Braddock, I know you killed your wife
.”

“Exactly.”

Claire exclaims in frustration.

“Honestly, David, how can you possibly think that of Anna? Don’t you know how much my sister loves you? Jesus, she sleeps with you; she makes love to you. What on Planet Earth is going on in your head?”

“Then –
who?
” I shout back. “Tell me, go on. Before these Thais kill me put me out of my misery, if you know so much. Who is it? Who’s writing me the letters?”

She steps close to me, stares into my eyes and says sadly, “You know, David. You’ve always known. It’s me, my darling.”

“You?”

“It’s me. And it’s you. It’s the same thing. We’re the same thing now.”

“I’m writing myself these letters?”

Claire nods.

“But why?”

“You know why.”

“I’m that crazy?”

“You’re that guilty,” she responds quietly.

“That can’t be right,” I say.

“It is.”

“It can’t be.”

“It
is
.
I’m sorry, but it is right. The paper, the printer, the knowledge of everything you’ve done. Think about it.”

I think about it.

I open my eyes. It’s official. David Braddock is barking mad.

At last I hear some movement outside, and I sit up, rather too quickly for my head’s liking. A key turns in a lock and the door opens to reveal two Thai men looking at me grimly.

The first man into the room holds a gun. The second man holds a tray with a plate of rice on it and a plastic bottle of water. I don’t recognize either of them from the nightclub. I wonder whether it was one of these two goons that whacked me.

“Ah, room service, at last,” I observe. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten my order.”

This fails to draw a smile.

The waiter sets down the plate and water and glances at the broken window before looking back at me.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make good any damage.”

They back out of the door, close and lock it.

“No cutlery,” I mutter to myself. “Looks like it will have to be my fingers.”

I eat and wait.

Lord Buddha said, “It is easy to see the faults in others, but difficult to see the faults in oneself. The faults of others one throws into the air like chaff into the wind, but one conceals one’s own faults the way a cunning gambler conceals his dice.”

Ha
.

Claire is right.

I have been sending myself anonymous letters.

It is … disturbing.

It’s growing dark outside.

Maybe I should try to sleep.

I am standing on a high landing
of what appears to be an emergency staircase. The building is clearly old and run-down. The paint has long since faded on the concrete walls, now blackened and stained with fungal growth. There are no windows. The only illumination comes from amber low-powered bulkhead lights mounted at random positions. Some of the bulbs are burnt-out while others are flickering intermittently. The damaged bulbs emit a low electrical buzzing noise. Behind me is a purple door with no handle. Since I can’t pull the door towards me, I push against it but it won’t budge.

Above me are several well-lit landings but the steps leading to the next level have disintegrated. There is no way I can go up. It seems I have no choice but to descend the stairs and try the doors on the lower landings.

I look over the rail, peer down into the stairwell and can see at least a dozen landings below me, each progressively darker than the last. After that is only blackness. By my feet are fragments of broken concrete: I kick one over the landing and watch it drop but cannot hear it hit bottom. From the abyss the muffled sound of slow hammering begins.

I call out a hello, and hear my voice echo off the walls. The hammering stops. I call
a second time, but there is no response. After a few moments the hammering begins again.

I gingerly make my way down to the next landing only to find another sealed door. This one is metal and has been welded shut.

As I descend further the lighting level deteriorates and on the next few landings there is no door at all: the opening has been bricked over. Unintelligible graffiti begins to appear, and increasingly rubbish strews the floor. On one landing there is a splintered, striped deckchair and beside it a moth-eaten top hat, broken crockery and the dried-out remains of several bats and small animals. I keep going. On another landing are the remnants of a bonfire, the wall next to it grimed with soot and a thick tar. The stairs themselves are coated in a layer of dust and speckled with old cigarette butts. Puffs of grey powder rise up disturbed by my footfalls. No-one has walked this way in a very long time.