Cockroaches

by Jo Nesbo

  Her gaze didn’t deviate, but Harry knew he had exposed her little test. She nodded, and he turned back to the corpse.

  “One victimological detail might confirm he was expecting a female visitor.”

  “Yes?”

  “See the belt? It was fastened two notches up from the worn line before I loosened it. Middle-aged men with burgeoning waistlines often pull their stomachs in when they meet younger women.”

  It was hard to say whether they were impressed. The officers shifted from one foot to the other and their stony young faces betrayed nothing. Crumley bit off a chunk of nail and spat it out between pursed lips.

  “So here’s the minibar.” Harry opened the door of the little fridge. Singha, Johnnie Walker and Canadian Club miniatures, a bottle of white wine. Nothing appeared to have been touched.

  “What else have we got?” Harry turned to the two young officers.

  They exchanged glances and then one pointed out the car in the drive.

  “The car.”

  They went outside, where there was a dark blue Mercedes of recent vintage bearing diplomatic plates. One of the police officers opened the driver’s door.

  “Key?” Harry asked.

  “It was in the jacket pocket of …” The officer nodded toward the motel room.

  “Fingerprints?”

  The young man gave his superior a resigned look. She coughed.

  “Obviously we’ve checked the key for prints, Hole.”

  “I wasn’t asking if you’d taken prints, but what you found.”

  “His. Otherwise we’d have told you at the outset.”

  Harry bit his tongue.

  The seats and floor of the Mercedes were strewn with rubbish. Harry noticed some magazines, cassettes, empty cigarette packets, a Coke can and a pair of sandals.

  “What else have you found?”

  Nho took out a list and read it out.

  “Stop,” Harry said. “Could you repeat the last item?”

  “Coupons for betting on horse races, sir.”

  “The ambassador obviously liked to gamble now and then,” Crumley said. “Popular sport in Thailand.”

  “And what’s this?”

  Harry had leaned over the driver’s side and picked up a small capsule partly buried under the carpet between the seat adjuster and the floor mat.

  The officer looked down at his list, but had to give up.

  “Liquid Ecstasy comes in capsules like that,” said Crumley, who had stepped closer to see.

  “Ecstasy?” Harry shook his head. “Middle-aged Christian Democrats might fuck around, but they do not take E.”

  “We’ll have to get it checked out,” Crumley said. Harry could see from her face that she wasn’t best pleased to have missed the capsule.

  “Let’s have a look in the back,” he said.

  The boot was as clean and tidy as the inside was messy.

  “A man of orderly habits,” Harry said. “The women of the family reigned supreme inside the car, but he didn’t let them touch the boot.”

  A well-equipped toolbox glinted in the light from Crumley’s torch. It was spotless; only plaster on the tip of a screwdriver revealed that it had been used.

  “Bit more victimology, folks. My guess is Molnes was not a practical man. This toolbox has never been near a car engine. At most, the screwdriver has been used to hang up a family photo.”

  A mosquito applauded by his ear. Harry hit out and felt his wet skin was cold to the touch. The heat hadn’t abated even if the sun had gone down. Now the wind had dropped and it felt as if moisture was trickling from the ground beneath their feet and condensing the air so that it was almost drinkable.

  Beside the spare tire was the jack, apparently also unused, and a thin, brown leather case of the kind you expect to find in a diplomat’s car.

  “What’s in the case?” Harry asked.

  “It’s locked,” Crumley said. “Because the car is, officially speaking, embassy territory and therefore not under our jurisdiction we haven’t attempted to open it. But now that Norway is represented maybe we can …”

  “Sorry, I don’t have diplomatic status,” Harry said, lifting the case out of the boot and placing it on the ground. “But I can state that the case is no longer on Norwegian territory, so I would suggest you open it while I go to reception and speak to the motel owner.”

  Harry sauntered across the car park. His feet were swollen after the flight, a drop of sweat rolled down the inside of his shirt, tickling him, and he was desperate for a drink. Apart from that, it didn’t feel too bad to be on a serious case again. It was a long time since his last job. He noticed that the “m” had gone out.

  Wang Lee, Manager said the business card the man behind the counter passed Harry, presumably a gentle hint that he should try again another day. The bony man in the flowery shirt had sleep in the corners of his eyes and looked as if he definitely did not want anything to do with Harry right now. He had started to flick through a pile of papers and grunted when he glanced up to see Harry still standing there.

  “I can see you’re a busy man,” Harry said. “So I suggest we do this as quickly as possible. I know I’m a foreigner and I’m not from your country—”

  “Not Thai. Chinese,” he heard, accompanied by another grunt.

  “Well, then, you’re also a foreigner. The point is—”

  From behind the counter came a couple of gasps which might have been scornful laughter. The motel owner had at any rate opened his mouth.

  “Not foreigner. Chinese. We make Thailand work. No Chinese, no business.”

  “Fine. You’re a businessman, Wang. So let me make you a business deal. You run a brothel here and you can flick through papers as much as you like, but that’s how it is.”

  Wang shook his head firmly. “No prostitutes. Motel. Rent rooms.”

  “Relax, I’m only interested in the murder, it’s not my job to lock up pimps. Unless I do it off my own bat. Hence the business deal. Here in Thailand no one checks people like you out, there are simply too many of you. Reporting you to the police isn’t enough, either. I’m guessing you can pay a few baht in a brown envelope to avoid being bothered by that kind of thing. That’s why you’re not particularly afraid of us.”

  The motel owner repeated the head-shaking.

  “No money. Illegal.”

  Harry smiled. “Last time I looked, Thailand was third in the world corruption table. Please be nice and don’t treat me like an idiot.”

  Harry ensured his voice was lowered. Threats generally work best when delivered in a neutral key.

  “Your problem, and mine, however, is that the guy who was found in the motel room is a diplomat from my country. If I have to report back that we suspect he died in a brothel it suddenly becomes a political issue and your friends in the police cannot help you. The authorities will feel obliged to close this place and haul you off to prison. To show goodwill, to show they’re maintaining law and order, right?”

  It was impossible to see from the expressionless face whether he had hit the nail on the head or not.

  “On the other hand, if I report back that the woman had arranged to meet the man, and the motel was a random choice …”

  The man looked at Harry. He blinked, pinching his eyes as if he had a speck of dust in them. Then he turned, pulled aside a curtain that hid a door opening and waved for Harry to follow. Behind the curtain was a little room with a table and two chairs, and the man motioned Harry to sit down. He put a cup in front of Harry and poured from a teapot. There was such a strong aroma of peppermint that it made his eyes smart.

  “None of girls want to work so long as body’s there,” Wang said. “How quickly can you move it?”

  Businessmen are businessmen the world over, Harry thought, lighting a cigarette.

  “Depends how quickly we can get to the bottom of what went on here.”

  “The man came here about nine at night and said he wanted room. He flicked through menu and said he
wanted Dim, he just needed rest first. Told me to say when she was here. I said he had to pay hourly rate anyway. He said fine and took key.”

  “The menu?”

  The man passed him something which did indeed resemble a menu. Harry leafed through. There were pictures of young Thai girls in nurse uniforms, in fishnet stockings, in tight leather corsets with a whip, in schoolgirl uniforms and plaits, and even in police uniforms. Beneath the pictures, under the heading VITAL STATISTICS was each girl’s age, price and background. Harry noticed that all of them claimed they were between eighteen and twenty-two. Prices ranged from one to three thousand baht and almost all the girls had apparently completed a language course and worked as nurses.

  “Was he alone?” Harry asked.

  “Yes.”

  “No one else in the car?”

  Wang shook his head.

  “How can you be so sure of that? The Mercedes has tinted windows and you were sitting in here.”

  “I usually go out and check. Perhaps he has friend with him. Then they have to pay for double room.”

  “I see. Double room, double price?”

  “Not double price.” Wang showed his teeth again. “Cheaper to share.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Don’t know. Man drove car to number 120, where he is now. It’s at back, so I can’t see it in darkness. I called Dim and she came and waited. After a while I sent her in to him.”

  “And how was Dim dressed? As a tram conductor?”

  “No, no, no.” Wang flipped through to the back page of the menu and proudly showed the photo of a young Thai girl wearing a short dress covered in silver sequins, white skates and a big smile. She was curtsying with her ankles crossed and her arms to the sides, as though she had just performed a successful free program. Her face was dotted with red freckles.

  “And that’s supposed to be …?” Harry said in disbelief, reading the name under the photo.

  “Yes, yes, right. Tonya Harding. The one who killed other American girl, pretty one.”

  “I don’t think she actually—”

  “Dim can be her too if you like …”

  “No, thank you,” Harry said.

  “It’s very popular. Especially with Americans. She can cry, if you like.” Wang ran fingers down his cheeks.

  “She found him in the room with a knife in his back. What happened after that?”

  “Dim ran here screaming.”

  “Wearing skates?”

  Wang gave Harry a reproachful look. “Skates come on after panties come off.”

  Harry could appreciate the practical side of the arrangement and waved him to carry on.

  “Nothing more to tell, Officer. We went to room and looked again, then I locked door and rang police.”

  “So, according to Dim the door was not locked when she got there. Did she say anything about it being ajar or was it just unlocked?”

  Wang shrugged his shoulders. “Door was closed but not locked. Is that important?”

  “You never know. Did you see anyone else near the room that evening?”

  Wang shook his head.

  “And where’s the guest book?” Harry asked. He was getting tired now.

  The motel owner’s head shot up. “No guest book.”

  Harry watched him in silence.

  “No guest book,” Wang repeated. “Why do I need one? No one will come if they register their names and addresses.”

  “I’m not stupid, Wang. No one thinks they’re being registered, but you keep a list. Just in case. VIPs drop by now and then and it could be good to slap a guest book on the table if you have any trouble one day, right?”

  The motel owner blinked like a frog.

  “Don’t be difficult now, Wang. People who had nothing to do with the murder have nothing to fear. Especially public figures. Word of honor. Now. Book, please.”

  It was a little notebook, and Harry scanned the closely written pages covered in Thai characters.

  “One of the others will come and copy this,” he said.

  The three officers were waiting by the Mercedes. The headlamps were on and they illuminated the briefcase, which was lying open on the patio.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Looks like the ambassador had unusual sexual predilections.”

  “I know. Tonya Harding. I call that kinky.”

  “When can we talk to Dim?”

  “We’ll get hold of her tomorrow. She’s working tonight.”

  Harry stopped in front of the briefcase. Details of the black-and-white photographs came to the fore in the yellow light from the headlamps. He froze. Of course he had heard about it, he had even read reports and talked with Vice Squad colleagues about it, but it was the first time Harry had seen a child being screwed by an adult.

  7

  Friday, January 10

  They drove up Sukhumvit Road where three-star hotels, luxury villas and wooden and tin shacks stood cheek by jowl. Harry didn’t see any of this; his gaze appeared to be fixed on a point straight in front of him.

  “Traffic’s better now,” Crumley said.

  “Yeah.”

  She smiled without showing her teeth. “Sorry, in Bangkok we talk about the traffic the way other places talk about the weather. You don’t have to live here for long to figure out why. The weather’s the same from now until May. Depending on the monsoon it starts raining sometime in late summer. And then it pours for three months. All there is to say about the weather is that it’s hot. We tell each other that all year around, but it’s not the most interesting topic of conversation.”

  “Mm.”

  “The traffic, on the other hand, determines our everyday lives in Bangkok more than any goddamn typhoons. I never know how long it’s going to take me to get to work. Could be forty minutes, could be four hours. Ten years ago it took twenty-five minutes.”

  “So what’s happened?”

  “Growth. The last twenty years have been one long economic boom. This is where the jobs are, and people flood in from the rural areas. More people traveling to work every morning, more mouths to feed and more demand for transport. The politicians promise us new roads and then just rub their hands with glee at how well things are going.”

  “Nothing wrong with good times surely?”

  “It’s not that I begrudge people TVs in their bamboo huts, but it’s happened so damn fast. And if you ask me, growth for growth’s sake is the logic of a cancer cell. Sometimes I’m almost glad we hit the wall last year. You can already feel its effect on the traffic.”

  “You mean it’s been worse than this?”

  “Of course. Look there …”

  Crumley pointed to a gigantic car park where hundreds of cement mixers stood in lines.

  “A year ago that parking lot was almost empty, but now no one is building anymore, so the fleet has been mothballed, as you can see. And people only go to shopping malls because they have air-conditioning, they don’t actually shop.”

  They drove in silence for a while.

  “Who do you think is behind this shit?” Harry asked.

  “Currency speculators.”

  He looked at her, uncomprehending. “I’m talking about the photos.”

  “Oh.” She glanced at him. “You didn’t like that, did you.”

  He shrugged. “I’m an intolerant person. I can’t help thinking about the death penalty.”

  The inspector checked her watch. “We pass a restaurant on the way to your apartment. What do you say to a crash course in traditional Thai food?”

  “OK. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Who’s behind the photos? Harry, there are probably more perverts in Thailand per square inch than in the whole world, people who have come here because we have a sex industry that meets all needs. And I do mean all needs. How the hell should I know who’s behind a few pictures?”

  Harry grimaced and rolled his head from side to side. “I was just asking. Wasn’t there some row a couple
of years ago about an ambassador who was a pedophile?”

  “Yeah, we busted a child sex ring involving a number of embassy people, among them the Australian ambassador. Very embarrassing.”

  “Not for the police though?”

  “Are you crazy? For us it was like winning the soccer World Cup and an Oscar at the same time. The Prime Minister sent his congratulations, the Minister for Tourism was in ecstasy and medals rained down on us. That has a big impact on the credibility of the force, you know.”

  “So what about making a start there?”

  “I don’t know. First up, everyone who was involved with the ring is either behind bars or has been deported. Second, I’m not convinced the photos have anything to do with the murder.”

  Crumley turned into a car park where an attendant pointed to an impossible gap between two cars. She pressed a button and the electronics buzzed as the large windows on both sides of the vehicle were lowered. Then she put the car in reverse and put her foot on the accelerator.

  “I don’t think …” Harry started to say, but the inspector had already parked. The side mirrors quivered.

  “How do we get out?” he asked.

  “It’s not good to worry so much, Detective.”

  Using both arms she swung herself through the window, placed one foot on the windscreen and jumped down in front of the Jeep. With a great deal of difficulty Harry succeeded in performing the same feat.

  “You’ll learn,” she said and started walking. “Bangkok is cramped.”

  “And what about the radio?” Harry looked back at the invitingly open windows. “Do you reckon it’ll be there when we get back?”

  She flashed her police badge to the attendant, who straightened up with a jolt.

  “Yes.”

  “No fingerprints on the knife,” Crumley said with a satisfied smack of her lips. Sôm-tam, a kind of green papaya salad, didn’t taste as weird as Harry had imagined. In fact, it was good. And spicy.

  She sucked the foam off the beer with a loud slurp. He looked around at the other customers, but no one seemed to notice, probably because she was drowned out by a polka-playing string orchestra on the stage at the back of the restaurant, which in turn was drowned out by the traffic. Harry decided he would drink two beers. Then stop. He could buy a six-pack on the way to the flat.