The two officers examining him across the desk. As though he were a specimen in a laboratory.
‘Check my vehicle.’
‘You sure you want us to do that? Find the slightest thing …’
‘A hair would do it. A thread off the kid’s jersey.’
‘You keep denying it and we find anything, things could go badly for you. You realise that?’
‘And if the boy dies …’
‘What’s the likely term for manslaughter, sarge?’
‘Could be years.’
‘Check my car,’ Greg said. ‘You’ll find nothing.’
‘Okay,’ the sergeant said. ‘You’ve had your chance. Let’s go outside and have a look, shall we?’
They had talked themselves into believing their own story. They knew he’d done it, knew it absolutely. This business of examining the car was simply to confirm what they already knew.
The three of them went outside together. It was dark but they had torches. They went over every inch of the car. Again and again. Again and again. There was nothing to find; they found nothing. They stared at each other and at him. They thought that somehow he’d pulled a fast one.
Certainly, the constable didn’t believe in anyone’s innocence. He didn’t want to believe it now.
‘Forensics?’ he suggested.
‘What we’ll do,’ the sergeant said, ‘we’ll drive out to the place where you say you found the boy. Have a poke round. Maybe we’ll come up with something.’
They didn’t. Not even a tyre mark. The officers weren’t pleased.
‘Looks like you got lucky this time,’ the constable said.
‘Give us your address and phone number,’ the sergeant said. ‘We come up with anything, we’ll be in touch.’
Greg wrote it on a scrap of paper and gave it to them. He looked from one of them to the other.
‘You mean I can go?’
‘Unless you got something you want to tell us.’
‘I was trying to help. That’s all it was.’
‘Hoping for a medal?’ the constable said.
That was it. Greg drove away. There were times he wondered how the child had been, whether he’d made a good recovery, but he did nothing to find out. Once bitten …
That was the incident that made him say to hell with the authorities, to hell with doing what others might say was responsible and right.
It made a new man of him; not necessarily a better man, but certainly new.
1993
CHAPTER 46
Things were worse at night. In the crowded cell there was no such thing as darkness. Always the lights in the corridor cast a baleful glare through the bars, shining on half-naked bodies crammed tightly together, on unconscious faces, reflecting from unsleeping eyes, laying bare the sense of despair that permeated air made stagnant by the breathing of the prisoners and the stench from the only latrine.
Greg slept uneasily, his back pressed against the wall, coming to at intervals to the reality and injustice of what had happened to him. He no longer thought there would be any speedy resolution of his nightmare situation; if Mongkut and Somchai had had any intention of getting him out they would have done so by now. No, he had come to believe that his worst fears were justified and that he, a naive and trusting fool, had allowed himself to be manipulated by unscrupulous men.
As to the corruption inherent in a system designed to ensure a prisoner pleaded guilty to a crime he had not committed, in what way was it different from how he’d been treated by the two cops back in Jericho all those years ago? A difference in degree, perhaps, but in principle there was no difference at all. Corruption existed in every country under the sun and it was foolish to pretend otherwise. Even Ms Willoughby had taken it for granted that he was guilty and would be sentenced accordingly. Even she had been corrupted by the rules and regulations that evidently governed her life, and the determination—as she had said—to co-operate with the authorities instead of with the Australian citizen who—surely?—had first claim on her support and protection.
He had struck up a guarded relationship with his Indian neighbour. Like Greg, Hassan had been arrested at the airport with drugs in his luggage. Unlike Greg, he had known all about it.
‘I needed the money,’ he said.
He seemed philosophical about what would happen to him.
‘Some you win, some you lose. This time I lost, big time.’
‘What will you do?’
‘What everybody does. Plead guilty and hope for a reduced sentence. Ten years, if I’m lucky.’
‘Is there nothing you can do?’
‘The only way out of here is if you know someone willing to put up bail for you.’
Exactly what the lawyer had said.
‘But how does that help you? You still have to come back when your bail expires.’
‘You are supposed to come back,’ Hassan said.
This was getting tricky. When he’d first arrived, he’d been accused by the crazy old man of being a spy. What about Hassan? Might he not be a spy, luring Greg on?
‘But if you don’t …?’
‘You have to get out of the country and never come back. Easier said than done, but it’s the only way.’
CHAPTER 47
Two days passed. Two days of squalor, fights, beatings and bad food; two nights of rent boys servicing their customers, a process that was sometimes quiet but more often noisy.
On the afternoon of the second day he had a visit from an Australian consular official, and Fiona Scott was as different from Avis Willoughby as it was possible to be. She was a lot older, her black hair streaked with grey. She was plain, a little overweight, and didn’t look as though she’d worn fashion-statement clothes in her life. At first sight, Greg found her appearance discouraging. He didn’t think a woman who looked like Fiona Scott would be likely to give him the help he’d failed to get from the more glamorous Avis Willoughby.
She sat in the same chair Avis had used but, unlike her, did not look at it as though she feared it might be covered in germs. She smiled at him pleasantly.
‘So what have you been up to?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘I’ve been framed.’
‘Tell me about it.’
She spoke as though she really wanted to know. In this, too, she differed from her predecessor. Greg’s spirits rose. Never mind her looks—which in any case improved as he looked at her, seeing for the first time her fine skin and clear grey eyes—but the fact that, unlike Avis Willoughby, she seemed to be on his side.
He told her everything: about his partners, the trip to Singapore, the inexplicable discovery of the drugs when he got back.
‘Both my lawyer and your colleague from the Australian embassy have said I should plead guilty. They seem to think my being innocent is irrelevant. But I didn’t do it. I knew nothing about it.’
‘The drugs they say you were bringing into the country: what were they?’
‘Cocaine.’
‘Which according to Thai law is a Second Schedule drug. A conviction for attempting to bring a Second Schedule drug into Thailand carries a prison term of twenty years to life, plus a hefty fine. Do you really want to risk that?’
No, he did not want to risk that. He told Fiona Scott he did not believe he would survive for one tenth of that time in the conditions he had experienced since his arrest.
‘You would not remain here if you were convicted,’ she said. ‘You would almost certainly be transferred to the Bang Kwang jail. Conditions there are said to be much worse than where you are now.’
‘I don’t see how they could possibly be worse.’ Even the thought of such a fate made Greg breathless. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘I suggest nothing,’ she said. ‘It would be most improper for me to do so. All I will say is that if I were in the position you find yourself in, I would plead not guilty and apply for bail. That is a legal option that would be available to you, provided someone you know was willing to put
up the sum required.’
‘I was told ten thousand dollars,’ Greg said.
‘The authorities would expect you to surrender to them on the due date. Failure to do so would mean forfeiture of the bond money. It would also be against Thai law and I certainly could not advise you to do such a thing. That would be most improper of me.’
‘Most improper,’ Greg said. ‘Of course. I understand.’
‘My advice to you is to obey the law, surrender on the due date and accept the decision of the court. That is what I am advising you to do. I cannot emphasise that too strongly.’
‘But how can I get the bail?’
‘You have family in Australia who might help?’
‘I have family. Whether they can help I don’t know.’
‘Give me their details. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘The police took my passport when I was arrested. Is there any way I can get it back?’
‘Unfortunately I don’t think they will hand it over. It’s your property and you’ve been convicted of no crime, but they will be afraid you might use it to help you get out of the country. I’ll do what I can but I can’t promise anything.’
Fiona Scott left, the plain woman who had become beautiful in Greg’s eyes because she had given him hope. By rights she should become an ambassador, down the track, but he feared that would never happen. She had shown more interest in his wellbeing than in the regulations and that would certainly be held against her when future promotions were considered.
Three days later two things happened.
He received an envelope bearing an Australian consular seal. Inside was a note. I tried. Nothing doing. I’m sorry. No signature.
She’d warned him but it was still a blow.
That was not all. In mid-morning guards took him from the cell and marched him to a room where an official told him that bail had been posted and he was free to go.
‘Make sure you surrender yourself before the trial date,’ the official told him. ‘If you do not do so, you will be arrested. If that happens, things will go badly for you. You understand?’
He found he could barely speak but managed to mumble something. He was stunned, scarcely able to believe his ears. To be set free, after all the despairing days … He was close to tears, his brain struggling to cope with what seemed a miracle. Fiona Scott, bless her, had come up trumps. She had contacted the family in Tasmania and someone had put up the money.
He thought it could only have been Tamsyn. Mum would certainly have done it if she could but had no money; Charlotte was loaded but they’d never been close and he couldn’t see her lifting a finger. It had to be Tamsyn.
If he managed to get out of the country she would lose her money. He would pay her back as soon as he could but he was under no delusions. If he escaped, he would owe her far more than money; he would owe her his life.
Once again tears threatened to overwhelm him.
An hour later, dressed in his own clothes and his watch back on his wrist and his money in his pocket, he stood on the pavement outside the prison gates and tried to come to terms with the fact that, for the moment at least, he was a free man.
He walked down the street away from the prison. People were walking to and fro. A bus passed him in a cloud of blue diesel smoke. On the other side of the street two women were talking, their high-pitched voices clearly audible above the other noises in the street. Everything was normal. Everything was normal. He was already finding it hard to believe he had been locked up in that crowded cell for over a week. He found it hard to believe that he had a twenty-year sentence hanging over him for something he hadn’t done. He had a piece of paper in his pocket, written in Thai and English, instructing him to report for trial in six weeks’ time and warning what would happen if he failed to do so. He was not permitted to leave Bangkok and must report to the police station every day during his bail period.
He knew he would never last twenty years in the conditions he had experienced in the last week. He wouldn’t last twenty weeks. He also knew, if he stood trial, that his chances of acquittal were virtually nil.
He continued to walk down the street until he was well away from the prison. Dressed, as he was, in normal clothes, there was nothing to connect him with it, nothing to make him stand out among the other people in the street around him.
There was a coffee shop with a little square beyond it. On the other side of the square a temple’s pointed dome shone gold against the blue of the sky. He went into the shop and ordered a coffee, strong enough to take the enamel off his teeth, and a piece of toast with a small container of coconut jam. He sat in the shop’s window and ate and drank as he watched the passers-by going about their affairs.
Bangkok was a picturesque city, popular with tourists, and he was fond of it but knew that staying there was out of the question.
The letter the official had given him warned that he was not permitted to leave the city and that he would be arrested if he tried to do so. He already knew he was going to take no notice of the terms of his release. He was not going to surrender himself to any court, either.
It would not be enough to leave the city, but if he went back to Krabi he would be arrested for sure, because that was where they would expect him to go and would be on the lookout for him there.
He would have to leave the country altogether and with no passport that might be tricky. He was legally out on bail but he thought the border guards would have been warned to keep an eye out for him in case he tried to get away.
He drank his coffee while he thought about it.
The international border nearest to Bangkok was the one with Cambodia. With regular flights between Bangkok and Phnom Penh it should have been a simple matter to hop on a plane, but without a passport that was impossible. Slipping into Cambodia on foot was also not on; in theory the terrible Khmer Rouge had been disposed of years before but people said elements were still operating along the border. Fall into their hands and he would die, and it would not be an easy death. Laos and Burma presented other options but from what he knew of those countries neither was an attractive destination for anyone in his situation.
Which left Malaysia, far away to the south.
There would be buses and trains running between Bangkok and the border. The buses crossed into Malaysia just beyond a little town called Su-ngai Kolok; the trains stopped on the Thai side of the border. Train passengers had therefore either to walk across the river bridge connecting the two countries or take a cyclo and board another train in Malaysia to continue their journey.
For legitimate travellers the bus would be more convenient, but he would not be a legitimate traveller. The train would therefore seem his only option. He would need to avoid the border post in Su-ngai Kolok and somehow cross the river into Malaysia without being seen by the guards on either bank of the river that marked the border and bore the same name as the town. How he would do it he had no idea but he told himself he would worry about that when he got there.
Now that he had made up his mind what he was going to do he was impatient to get on with it. He swallowed the last of his bread with what was left of the coconut jam and went out into the street.
The train to the Malaysian border left from the Bangkok southern station. There was a train every evening so he had plenty of time. He continued to stroll along the street, heading for the city centre, staring in the windows of the shops he passed while trying to check whether or not he was being followed. He crossed the road and a hundred metres later crossed back again. As far as he could tell no one was paying him any attention.
He reached the station and bought a ticket that would take him to the most northerly town in Malaysia, a place called Rantau Panjang. He had no plans to go to Rantau Panjang because that would mean dealing with the Malaysian authorities and that would prove awkward if they’d been asked by Bangkok to look out for him.
He would have to leave the train at Su-ngai Kolok, on the Thai side
of the border, but thought it would attract less attention if he pretended to be going on into Malaysia. Keeping well away from the crossing point, he would then find a place to cross the river either by hiring, or if necessary stealing, a boat.
The train was scheduled to leave Bangkok at three-ten that afternoon, arriving at Su-ngai Kolok just over twenty hours later, at eleven-twenty the following morning. It was classified as a ‘rapid’ train, which did not mean it was fast but that it was a little less slow than the other trains.
He doubted there would be much in the way of eating facilities on the train, rapid or not, so he found a cafe in a side street a short way from the station where he ate a bowl of curried fish with a side dish of pickled vegetables.
It was the first good meal he’d eaten in over a week and he enjoyed it. When he had finished the food, he ordered some jasmine tea, more to pass the time than because he needed it; he wanted to make himself as inconspicuous as possible and therefore planned to return to the station shortly before the train was due to leave.
When he did so, at five minutes before three, he was sweating under his shirt, his eyes darting in every direction and his breath whistling in his throat in case, at the last minute, there might be someone waiting to alert the train conductor as soon as he climbed aboard.
He walked the length of the train but, just as he’d noted during his walk from the prison, no one seemed to be taking any notice of him. Finally, he took a deep breath, took hold of the handrail and stepped up into the carriage.
His heart was loud in his ears as he waited for the train to begin its journey. As he still waited. More people were scurrying along the platform, some running. Still the train did not move. The air was hot, breathless. He closed his eyes, trying to conceal his agitation.
At last the train started with a jerk that set the carriage swaying. It left the station so slowly he was afraid it might change its mind and stop again, but it did not. The platform slipped out of sight and they were moving, still slowly, through the outskirts of the city. He allowed himself to breathe more easily.
Stars Over the Southern Ocean Page 29
