It was the website that had got me started as a part-time private eye. A woman in Seattle who’d bought a couple of Khmer statues from me sent me an email asking if I’d go around to her husband’s hotel and check that he was okay. He’d gone to Thailand on a golfing holiday with half a dozen of his buddies and she hadn’t heard from him for three days.
She’d imagined all sorts of scenarios, most of which involved her husband running off with a sloe-eyed beauty.
There was no great mystery. He’d gone down with food poisoning and was in hospital. His buddies had headed off to Pattaya after the doctors had said that he’d be back on his feet in a day or two. They’d assumed that he’d phone his wife, he’d assumed that they’d done it.
I called her, put her mind at rest, and a week later I received a cheque for five hundred dollars that I hadn’t asked for. I hadn’t even thought about money. The guy ran a computer business and a few months after he got back to Seattle he called me and me to check out a Thai software firm that he was planning to do business with. I made a few calls and discovered that the two guys running the software company had a history of ripping off Western investors. The Seattle guy was so grateful that he sent me a cheque for five thousand dollars and passed on my name to all his friends.
Now I probably got half a dozen requests for help every week. Most are through the website or word of mouth. A few get pointed in my direction from the Western embassies. I don’t take on every case. Just the ones that I find interesting, or where I know that I’ll make a difference. I liked Mr and Mrs Clare and I wanted to help.
I wanted to reunite them with their son.
And I wanted to lose the feeling I had that something bad had happened to him.
I looked at my watch. It was time to visit the Kube.
Or at least what was left of it.
CHAPTER 6
The Kube was in Sukhumvit Soi 71, also known as Pridi Banomyong, named after the seventh prime minister of Thailand who ordered it to be built. He also founded Thammasat University, the country’s second oldest. He did a lot of good things for Thailand, and I don’t think he would have been impressed with what had happened in the street that bore his name. Two hundred and twenty three young people dead. Many more injured. And all because some Thai wannabe rock star thought it would be a good idea to let off fireworks in the middle of his show.
I paid the taxi driver and waited until a stream of motorcycles had passed by on the inside before opening the door and getting out. The air was stiflingly hot after the blisteringly cold aircon and within seconds my face was bathed in sweat. Panels of corrugated iron had been erected on a scaffold frame to shield the burnt carcass of the building from the road. Two uniformed policemen were standing by their Tiger Boxer motorcycles. One of them was drinking a can of Red Bull.
‘I’m here to see Colonel Somsak,’ I said in my most polite Thai. ‘He’s expecting me.’
One of them pointed at a gap in the corrugated iron and I went through. I could smell the ash and seared wood before I saw the building, or what was left of it. It had once been a two-storey building, the lower part built of concrete blocks and clad with wood, and the upper storey made of teak. Only the blocks remained, the grey concrete stained with black soot. The window frames had been reduced to ash and there was broken glass all around.
Somsak was standing in front of a concrete arch on which the name of the club was spelt out in yellow metal letters which had buckled in the heat of the fire. He was wearing his brown uniform that looked as if it had been spray-painted onto his athletic body, a peaked cap with gold insignia and gleaming black boots. His Glock was in its nylon holster on his hip and he was holding a transceiver as he spoke to a pretty woman in a black suit who was carrying a Louis Vuitton briefcase. Standing close by were two more uniformed officers.
Somsak grinned when he saw me and waved his transceiver. ‘Khun Bob, come and meet the Public Prosecutor,’ he said. ‘Khun Jintana, this is the Khun Bob I was telling you about.’
Khun Jintana smiled and managed to wai me which was no mean feat considering she was holding the briefcase. It was a nice wai, too, with eye contact before and after. I figured the wai was more out of respect for my wife than for me but I gave her a wai back anyway.
Somsak grinned again and hugged me and patted me on the back with his transceiver. ‘Good to see you, my friend.’
‘Terrible business,’ I said, nodding at the carnage behind him.
Somsak nodded. ‘You should have been here on the night,’ he said. ‘It was bad.’
Somsak was based at the Thonglor station, not far from my apartment, and the Kube was on his patch.
‘Will there be prosecutions, Khun Jintana?’ I asked.
She smiled, showing perfect teeth. ‘That remains to be seen, Khun Bob,’ she said. ‘The investigation is on-going.’ She smiled again.
I had spoken to her in Thai and she had replied in English. Perfect English, but then my Thai is perfect, too.
‘Two hundred and twenty-three dead,’ I said. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘Most of them teenagers,’ said Somsak. ‘And a lot of them underage. It doesn’t look as if they were checking IDs. And it’s two hundred and twenty-five. Two more died overnight.’
‘And how many have still to be identified?’
Somsak looked pained. ‘A lot,’ he said.
‘Is there are a problem?’
‘The bodies are in a mess,’ he said. ‘The ones with ID are done but if the fire’s destroyed ID and clothing then we just have work through missing person lists plus dental records and once we’ve done that the Central Institute of Forensic Science will start DNA testing.’
‘What about the foreigners? How do you about getting dental records for them?’
Somsak looked even more pained. ‘It’s not my field, Khun Bob. I wish that it was. I’ve been told that’s the way to proceed.’
Hierarchy was everything in Thailand. Bosses were never to be criticised, even when they were wrong.
‘I have to be going,’ said Jintana. She gave me another wai and walked away, swinging her briefcase.
‘Do you know who she is?’ asked Somsak.
‘The Public Prosecutor, you said.’
‘Ah, she’s much more than that,’ said Somsak. ‘She’s from a big family. Her father is an MP in Chiang Mai. Went to school with one of the owners of the Kube.’
‘That’s one hell a coincidence.’
‘My father always used to say that there are no coincidences in life, only opportunity,’ said Somsak.
‘Your father was a wise man,’ I said. We both watched her walk through the gap in the corrugated iron and onto the pavement. ‘So do you think you’ll punish anyone for this? For the deaths?’
‘Someone will have to be punished,’ said Somsak. ‘A lot of kids died here. A lot of hi-so kids. The phones have been ringing off the hook.’
‘What about the owners?’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Somsak. He jerked a thumb at the ruined building. ‘And after this it’s going to get even more complicated, I’m sure. The real owners invested in the place about five years ago, but they did it through an offshore company and used figurehead directors in Thailand.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘But not unusual,’ said Somsak. ‘Places like this sometimes get busted for drugs or underage drinking and the great and the good don’t like to see their names in Thai Rath.’
Thai Rath is one of the bestselling tabloid newspapers and the paper gives a whole new meaning to the word sensationalism.
‘And Khun Jintana’s father is friends with one of the figureheads or one of the great and good?’ I asked.
‘The latter,’ said Somsak. ‘But that’s the word on the street, you understand. No one knows for sure who the investors are.’
‘So I’m guessing one of the figureheads will be offered up as a sacrificial lamb.’
‘That would be a good guess, Khun Bob. Unfortunately tw
o of the figureheads are now in Singapore. The other is somewhere in Isarn.’
Isarn, the north-east of the country, the poorest part of Thailand and the area least amenable to assisting the Bangkok police with their enquiries.
‘Do you think the investors can be held accountable?’
‘I would think not. They were just money men. But the figureheads were in the club every night. The club was making money hand over fist.’
‘It was an accident, right?’
Somsak grimaced as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘It was an accident waiting to happen,’ he said. ‘There was no insurance, the fire exits were locked, there were more than a thousand people in the building at the time of the fire when it was licensed for seven hundred. There hadn’t been a fire inspection for three years and there were twice as many cars in the carpark as there should have been. One reason that so many died is that the fire brigade couldn’t get close to the building.
‘Who was in charge, on the night?’
‘The sons of one of the owners were there but they were entertaining in the VIP area upstairs,’ said Somsak. ‘They both died.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘One of the owners was downstairs when the fire broke out. He was one of the first out. Straight into a taxi without looking back. He’s the one in Isarn.’
‘He didn’t try to help?’
‘He fled the scene, that’s what we were told.’
‘What sort of person would do that?’
Somsak shrugged. ‘The sort of person who thinks he’ll be punished for his actions. His instinct for self-preservation took precedence over helping those who were trapped.’
‘And the fire exits were locked, you said?’
Somsak nodded. ‘That’s why so many died. There was only one way in and out and when the fire broke out there was a stampede and the exit was blocked. Everyone on the upper floor died, except for half a dozen who managed to break a window at the back. They jumped and are all in hospital, smashed up but they will probably live.’ He pointed at the left of the shell. ‘There was another VIP area in the basement,’ he said. ‘Everyone died down there. There was only a narrow stairway and when the power went it was pitch dark.’
I shuddered. It wouldn’t have been a pleasant way to die. But then again, few deaths are pleasant.
‘Why are you interested, Khun Bob?’ he asked.
‘I’m looking for a missing American boy,’ I said. ‘His parents are worried that he might have been in the club.’
‘I hope that’s not the case,’ he said.
‘You and me both,’ I said.
‘There were many foreigners in the building,’ he said.
‘Do we know how many of the dead are farang?’
‘The bodies were too badly burned,’ he said quietly. ‘In the aftermath of an inferno, we all look the same, Thai and farang.’
The two of us stood their nodding in the sunlight, the smell of death all around us. I tried not to imagine what it must have been like in the dark, lungs filling with smoke, everyone screaming and fighting to escape, the strong trampling over the weak, people choking and falling and dying. The lucky ones would have been overcome by the smoke, the unlucky ones would have been conscious as they burned alive.
I wanted to go home and hold my wife and tell her that I loved her and that if she ever went to a nightclub she should never venture far from the emergency exits.
‘If the sons were in the VIP area, who was minding the place downstairs?’ I asked Somsak.
‘The man who fled,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘And a manager. A farang. From Australia.’
‘Where is he?’
Somsak blew smoke up at the sky. ‘Bumrungrad Hospital. Soi 3.’
‘That’s a coincidence.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’ve got an appointment there tomorrow morning.’
Somsak frowned. ‘Are you sick?’
‘It’s my yearly check-up,’ I said. ‘Nothing to worry about. What about the manager? Is he okay?’
Somsak smiled. ‘He’s in hospital, Khun Bob. People generally don’t go there unless there is a problem.’
It was hard to tell whether he was joking or just taking me literally. Then he grinned.
‘Very funny, Somsak,’ I said. ‘I meant is he seriously hurt?’
‘Third degree burns,’ said Somsak. ‘He will live but he won’t be winning any beauty pageants.’
‘Do you think he’s up to receiving visitors?’
‘You want to talk to him?’
‘I want to see if he remembers seeing the American boy, that’s all.’
Somsak nodded slowly. ‘You can try. His name is Ronnie. Ronnie Marsh.’
CHAPTER 7
My appointment with Doctor Duangtip was at eleven o’clock but I wanted to get there earlier so that I could visit Ronnie Marsh so I caught a taxi in Soi Thonglor at just before nine. It was raining. It was early May and the farmers in the north eastern Isarn provinces had suffered three months of drought that was threatening to destroy the rice crop. The rice paddies were so dry that they weren’t able to plant their rice seedlings and many were facing financial ruin. The skies had been cloudy for the best part of a week but the rain had steadfastly refused to come so the Bureau of Royal Rainmaking and Agricultural Aviation had been seeding the clouds with salt and calcium and silver iodide. The clouds had fattened and darkened but then the wind had changed and by the time the rain started to fall they were over Bangkok. The rains had come but it was the citizens of Bangkok who were drenched while the farmers of Isarn were still despairing over their parched farmland and devastated livelihoods. In some of the more remote villages the headmen had given up on the official rainmakers and had organised the hae-nang-maew-kaw-fon festival where they dragged a cat around in a wicker basket and drenched it with water. The rains still hadn’t reached the north east but the road to Bumrungrad Hospital was under several inches of water.
Bumrungrad Hospital is often touted as the best in Asia. It’s in Soi 3, a hop, skip and a jump from Nana Plaza, one of the largest red light areas in the city, and just across the road from Little Arabia, home to most of the Arabs visiting the city. There were more than a dozen Arabs in reception, the men in man dresses and sandals and the women swathed from head to foot in black. I’ve never understood why the Arabs just didn’t build their own hospitals and import the doctor and nurses but whatever the reason it was certainly good for the Thai economy and brought in millions of dollars a year.
I’ve never liked hospitals but if you’ve got to go then you might as well go to one that looks like a five-star hotel and is staffed by hundreds of pretty young girls in tight-fitting starched white uniforms. There’s a Starbucks on the premises, a McDonald’s, a bakery, a top-notch Japanese restaurant, and other restaurants I haven’t even seen. When you check into the Bumrungrad for treatment you’re asked what sort of room you’d like, up to a two-bedroom suite, and your food is chosen from a room service menu. And you’re treated like a valued guest, not a patient.
Eat your heart out, Medicare.
It took me half an hour to get to Soi 3 and then another half an hour to get down the waterlogged street to the hospital but I still had plenty of time to go up to the burns unit before my health check.
The nurse I spoke to in the burns unit didn’t ask who I was or why I was there, she just smiled and showed me to the room.
It was a private room and Marsh was the only occupant, lying flat with a rack over his legs to keep the sheet off his legs and chest. There were dressings on his face and neck and what looked like mittens on his hand, but he wasn’t connected to any machines making beeping noises which I took as a good sign.
There was a flatscreen television on the wall opposite his bed showing a football match with the sound muted but his eyes were closed and he seemed to be asleep.
‘Ronnie?’ I said as I closed the door behind me.
His eyes opened. ‘Yeah?
’
‘How are you feeling?’
Not the smartest of questions, I know, but I wanted to get him talking.
‘How do you think I’m feeling?’
‘It hurts?’
‘Not as much as it did when they brought me in.’ He looked across at a drip feed that was going into his left arm. ‘Whatever it is they’re pouring into me, it’s doing the trick.’
I nodded at a chair at the side of his bed. ‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Bob Turtledove,’ I said, which was true.
‘From the Embassy,’ I added. Which wasn’t true, strictly speaking.
‘You’re American,’ he said.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘An American working for the Australian Embassy? That doesn’t make sense.’
‘I’m with the American Embassy,’ I said, which was sort of true in that Matt Richards had sent the Clares to me.
Okay, so it wasn’t true.
Sue me.
I took the photograph of Jon Junior from my pocket and held it in front of his face. ‘Do you remember seeing this boy, the night of the fire?’
‘What?’ he said.
‘This boy? Was he in the club?’
‘I’m lying here in the ICU and you’re showing me a bloody photograph?’
‘It’s important,’ I said. ‘His parents are looking for him.’
‘Yeah, well I’ve got enough problems of my own, mate.’
I took the photograph away from his face. ‘Look, I’m sorry you were hurt,’ I said. ‘But at least you’re alive. This boy might not be so lucky.’
Bangkok Bob and the missing Mormon Page 4
