The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Do you speak English?’ he asked.

  She smiled and shook her head.

  ‘Does anyone here speak English?’ asked Wright, pointing at the uniforms behind the counter.

  Her smile widened. She shook her head again.

  Wright and the girl stood smiling at each other. He wondered if it was a test of wills, if she was seeing how long he could wait with an inane grin on his face. If it was a test, Wright failed. He took out Colonel Vasan’s business card and handed it to the girl.

  ‘I want to speak to him,’ he said.

  She read the card and then looked at Wright with renewed respect, speaking to him in rapid Thai.

  Wright shook his head. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. He was starting to feel helpless. The language was so unfamiliar, the sounds so strange, that he couldn’t even begin to guess what she was talking about.

  A female officer and a middle-aged man came over and took it in turns to read the card. The man spoke to Wright in Thai.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Wright. ‘I don’t speak Thai.’

  ‘Name you?’ said the man.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Wright. He took out his wallet and gave the officer one of his British Transport Police business cards. It was studied with equal solemnity.

  ‘Sit, please,’ said the man, indicating the benches.

  Wright went and sat down. The officers talked among themselves, then the young girl picked up a phone. Wright sighed. That hadn’t been too difficult.

  Half an hour later he was still waiting. He went back up to the desk and in pidgin English tried to ask how long it would be before Colonel Vasan could see him. He was faced with more smiles and nods towards the benches. He went and sat down again.

  Forty-five minutes later a matronly woman in a pale blue dress came up behind him. ‘Mr Nick?’ she said.

  Wright stood up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Nick Wright. I’m here to see Colonel Vasan.’

  ‘He is very busy today,’ she said, handing him his business card. ‘Can you come back tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t mind waiting,’ he said.

  The woman hesitated, then smiled. She turned and went through one of four doors in the wall opposite the counter. Wright sat down. Behind him the two men continued to snore quietly. Wright wondered if like him they were also waiting to see someone, of if they had just come in to take advantage of the airconditioning.

  It was a full hour before the woman returned. ‘Colonel Vasan will see you now,’ she said.

  Wright followed her through the door, along a corridor, up a flight of stairs and along another corridor, lined on both sides with dark wooden doors bearing the names of police officers. The woman took Wright into an office which contained a desk and a dozen filing cabinets. On the desk was a photograph of two smiling children and next to it a gold Buddha statue around which had been draped a garland of purple and white flowers. She knocked on a door and disappeared.

  When the woman reappeared a few minutes later she nodded at a chair by the door. ‘Please wait here,’ she said, smiling. ‘He is busy again.’

  Wright began to feel that he was getting the runaround, but he smiled and sat down as asked. He could only imagine what sort of reception a Thai detective would get if he turned up at BTP headquarters unable to speak a word of English, so he was prepared to be patient. He sat with his hands on his knees and resisted the temptation to keep looking at his watch.

  The woman busied herself with paperwork, occasionally pecking at a large electric typewriter that shuddered so much that her desk vibrated every time she pressed a key. After fifteen minutes she stood up, opened the door to the colonel’s office and told Wright that the colonel was ready to see him. There had been no phone call, no signal from the colonel, and Wright knew for sure that he’d been deliberately kept waiting in the outer office.

  Colonel Vasan was a short, stocky man with jet black hair that glistened as if it had been oiled and steel-framed spectacles that sat high up on a prominent nose. He wore a chocolate-brown uniform with gold insignia on the shoulders and a thick chunk of ribbon medals on his breast pocket. His left cheek was pitted and scarred as if it had been scraped against a rough surface a long time ago. He had a square face with a wide jaw that he thrust forward as he studied Wright. He had Wright’s business card on his desk and he looked down at it and then back at Wright’s face.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, Colonel Vasan,’ said Wright, holding out his hand.

  The colonel looked at the hand, then at Wright’s card, then back to Wright’s face. He spoke in Thai. Wright was about to say that he couldn’t speak Thai when the secretary spoke behind him.

  ‘Colonel Vasan prefers to conduct interviews in his own language,’ she explained. ‘I will translate for him. He asks that you sit down.’

  Wright sat on one of two wooden chairs facing Vasan’s desk. The secretary sat next to him, her hands clasped in her lap.

  ‘I am Sergeant Nick Wright. I am a detective with the British Transport Police in London investigating a murder that took place several weeks ago.’

  Wright waited for the secretary to translate. The colonel stood up as the secretary spoke and strode over to a window that overlooked the car park. Wright noticed a large holstered handgun on Vasan’s right hip, and a radio transceiver hooked to his belt. His trousers were tucked into black boots that had been polished to a lustrous shine. He looked more like a soldier than a policeman.

  ‘I understand from press reports that there has been a similar murder in Bangkok. A man called Eric Horvitz. I was hoping that you might tell me what progress had been made on the case.’

  When the secretary finished translating, the colonel turned. He spoke in Thai and the secretary turned to Wright.

  ‘Colonel Vasan asks that you tell him about the case you are investigating,’ she said.

  Wright took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Vasan. Inside was a printout of the pathologist’s report, a description of the crime scene, photographs of the crime scene and the body, Max Eckhardt’s biography and several newspaper cuttings. Vasan studied them. Wright wondered if he was able to read English or if he was only pretending to.

  ‘The victim was a forty-eight-year-old American photographer, married but with no children. He’d only recently arrived in London. He had no enemies as far as we can see. Some camera equipment and his wallet were taken, but we don’t think robbery was the motive. The wounds were inflicted over a long period and amount to torture.’

  The colonel nodded, even though the secretary hadn’t started translating. When she did begin talking, Vasan seemed more interested in the newspaper cuttings than in what she was saying. Wright reckoned the Thai policeman’s English was more than adequate for a conversation, but that he preferred to use the woman as a buffer. Vasan waited until she’d finished before speaking to her in Thai.

  ‘Colonel Vasan asks why there is no mention of the playing card in the newspaper articles you have given him,’ she said.

  Wright explained that investigating officers often withheld information in the hope that it would help identify the culprit at a later date. The secretary translated and the colonel nodded. He sat down again behind his desk and spread the photographs out, studying them in silence for several minutes.

  ‘What I’d like is to have a look at the evidence you collected from your crime scene, and perhaps to speak to your officers,’ said Wright. ‘It has to be the same killer.’

  The secretary didn’t start translating until the colonel looked up from the pictures. He replied in Thai.

  ‘Colonel Vasan asks what is it that you want to know,’ she said.

  Vasan gathered up the photographs and handed them to Wright, but kept hold of the printouts and newspaper cuttings.

  ‘The playing card,’ said Wright. ‘I’d like a look at it.’

  Again, Vasan reacted before his secretary translated. He said something to her and nodded at a bank of filing cabinets. She went over to them and pu
lled out a drawer. She had a pair of spectacles hanging on a chain around her neck and she put them on, then riffled through the grey cardboard files. She took one out and gave it to Wright.

  It consisted mainly of written reports, all in Thai, none of which made any sense at all to Wright. Most appeared to be handwritten. There was a hand-drawn diagram which he realised must be the basement where the body was discovered. ‘Are there any photographs of the crime scene?’ he asked.

  Colonel Vasan shook his head before the secretary had time to translate.

  ‘No, there are not,’ she said.

  At the back of the file was a plastic bag containing a blood-stained ace of spades. The black ace filled most of the card and in the centre of it, where it had been punctured by a knife, was the ghostly figure of a woman. It was the same brand that had been found in the Battersea tunnel.

  ‘It’s the same,’ he said. ‘The card we found in London was the same as this.’ He held it up.

  The secretary translated.

  ‘Would it be possible for me to have translations of these reports?’ asked Wright, indicating the file.

  The secretary spoke to Vasan, who shrugged and replied.

  ‘It is possible, but it will take time,’ said the secretary. ‘If you tell us where you are staying, we will have them delivered to you.’

  Wright nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There will be a charge for the service, however,’ she said.

  Wright was surprised but tried not to show it. ‘Fine,’ he said.

  She spoke to Vasan and the colonel smiled.

  ‘And I’d appreciate a look at the rest of the files on the case,’ said Wright.

  The secretary frowned. ‘There is only the one file,’ she said.

  Wright was stunned. ‘That’s all there is?’ he said. ‘For a murder investigation? Are there no computer files? Witness reports?’

  She translated and listened as the Colonel replied. ‘That is the only file,’ she said, ‘but Colonel Vasan will answer any questions you might have.’

  ‘Does he have a suspect? Any motive, a reason why anyone would want to kill Eric Horvitz?’

  Through his translator, the Thai policeman said that enquiries were continuing, but so far they had no theories, that Eric Horvitz had been well liked, had no financial problems, and so far as the Thai police were concerned, no enemies.

  ‘And what about the card? Do you have any idea of the significance of the ace of spades?’

  The secretary translated and the colonel shook his head. Assuming that Vasan wasn’t keeping anything back, the Thai police had made as little progress as Wright and his colleagues had on their case.

  The colonel spoke to his secretary. ‘Colonel Vasan asks if you know of any other connection between the two dead men,’ she said.

  A good question, thought Wright. He’d gone to the police station with the intention of sharing the information he had, and of telling Vasan that Eckhardt and Horvitz had both played with The Jazz Club in Bangkok, but now he was having second thoughts. Vasan seemed more concerned with playing power games than with solving the case. Wright shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said.

  When he left the office, Wright didn’t offer to shake hands.

  Gerry Hunter got AFP’s number from directory enquiries and called up Steve Reynolds. ‘I’m calling about Max Eckhardt,’ explained Hunter. ‘Do you by any chance know if he served in Vietnam?’

  ‘I’ve already been through this with another officer,’ said Reynolds tetchily.

  Hunter tensed. ‘Who?’

  ‘Edwards. A sergeant, I think.’

  ‘Clive Edmunds?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘A while back, I think. He called late one evening just as I was on my way out of the office. Insisted I pulled Max’s personnel file.’

  Hunter gripped the ballpoint pen in his right hand so tightly that his fingers started to turn white. ‘Can you remember what you told my colleague?’ he asked.

  ‘I know I was able to tell him that Max had been in Vietnam. Look, give me a second, I’ll get the file.’

  Reynolds was only away from the phone for a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Hunter. ‘Yeah, here we are. He did a tour of duty in ’sixty-seven and ’sixty-eight.’

  ‘Does it give any details of what he did?’

  ‘No, it’s an old CV, from the ’seventies, and back then people tended to gloss over what they did during the war. There was a lot of anti-war feeling in the States, right up until the Reagan years, I guess.’

  ‘What about you, did you go?’

  ‘Hell, no,’ said Reynolds. ‘I missed it by five years. Why are you so interested in what Max did during the war?’

  ‘It’s just a line we’re following up,’ said Hunter. ‘Do you have any idea how I could find out more about his war record?’

  ‘I can tell you the same as I told Edmunds,’ said Reynolds. ‘You should try the Pentagon. The Defense Department. I’m sure they’d have him on file. Edmunds said he would speak to your FBI agent about it. And there’s May, of course.’

  ‘May?’

  ‘Max’s wife. She’d probably know.’

  ‘Oh, right, sure.’ Hunter thanked Reynolds and hung up.

  He sat staring at the wall, his mind in turmoil. Clive had been on to something, but what? He’d tied Eckhardt to the Vietnam War, a war where playing cards were used as death cards. Had Clive taken it any further before he died? Hunter picked up the evidence bag containing the ace of spades. There was nothing in the HOLMES file about Eckhardt’s war service, and while Clive was notoriously lax at filling out his reports, Hunter figured that he must have been working on the Vietnam link just before he died. What else had he found out?

  Wright pushed open the swing doors and walked into Cowboy Nights. He’d changed into a white cotton shirt and black Levi jeans. The crowd was pretty much the same as the previous night, and he recognised several faces.

  The Canadian, Alain Civel, was standing at the bar and he waved at Wright. ‘Ah, Neek,’ he called, ‘back for more?’

  Wright joined him and ordered a lager. A waitress put a bowl of roasted peanuts down in front of him and he took a handful. ‘What time are The Jazz Club on?’ he asked.

  ‘Ten minutes or so. You know it’s jam night?’

  ‘Yeah. Are you going to play?’

  Civel grimaced. ‘Not me, man. They’re way out of my league.’

  The Thai band finished their set to lukewarm applause. Wright carried his bottle over to the spiral staircase and examined the framed photographs hanging on the wall. The one featuring Max Eckhardt had gone. Wright methodically looked at all the photographs on the wall in case they’d been rearranged, but there was no mistake.

  Wright turned around. Doc was standing on the stage, holding his saxophone. He was staring at Wright. Wright raised his bottle in salute and grinned. Doc flashed Wright a tight smile, then turned away.

  Wright went back to Civel. ‘You’ve been coming here for ten years, you said?’

  ‘Oui,’ said Civel. ‘I work in Saudi, but every chance I get I fly over. Beer and women on tap, what more could a man want?’

  The question was rhetorical, Wright assumed. ‘Ever come across a guy called Eckhardt? Max Eckhardt. Played bass guitar.’

  Civel shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘I saw his picture on the wall, playing with the band.’ He nodded at the stage, where Hammack and Ramirez were lifting O’Leary’s wheelchair. They spent a few minutes tuning their instruments while the audience waited expectantly.

  The band went straight into ‘Dimples’, a John Lee Hooker song, with O’Leary stabbing at his guitar, rocking his head violently in time with the beat, and Doc’s saxophone taking the place of the vocals. Then they eased into two more John Lee Hooker blues tunes, ‘Walkin’ The Boogie’ and ‘I See When You’re Weak’, both giving Doc ample scope to show his flair and origi
nality. Civel jabbed Wright in the ribs and Wright nodded appreciatively.

  Hardly had the applause broken out than the band launched into a Muddy Waters classic, ‘Got My Mojo Working’. Hammack sang as he played on the keyboard, chewing his gum between verses.

  For half an hour the band jammed, and once again it was Doc who was firmly in control, allocating solos with nods and glances. They ended to tumultuous applause, and Doc introduced the members of the band. Then he announced that it was jam night, and that members of the audience were welcome to take part.

  The first volunteer was a middle-aged Westerner in a Coca-Cola T-shirt and cut-off jeans. He played drums and Ramirez went over to stand with his fan club while the band ran through two Phil Collins numbers, ‘In The Air Tonight’ and ‘Another Day In Paradise’. The drummer tried to be too clever and several times lost the beat after attempting complicated fills. He left the stage to supportive applause, but there was a self-satisfied look on Ramirez’s face as he took his place behind the drum kit.

  Next up was a stocky Japanese man in a shiny black suit, who sang ‘My Way’ in a near-perfect imitation of Sinatra, down to the phrasing and gestures of the great man. It owed more to karaoke than jamming, but The Jazz Club gave him musical and moral support, and joined in the applause when he finished the number. He beamed as he went back to a group of Japanese businessmen clustered around the bar and several of them slapped him on the back.

  ‘Any more volunteers?’ asked Doc.

  ‘Here we go,’ Wright said to the Canadian. ‘Wish me luck.’ He walked towards the stage, taking his harmonica from the back pocket of his jeans. Doc raised a querulous eyebrow. ‘Okay?’ said Wright, holding up the harmonica.

  Doc gave him an exaggerated bow and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘Feel free,’ he said.

  Wright stepped up on to the stage. A spotlight moved across and settled around him. O’Leary was staring open mouthed. Wright was obviously the last person he’d expected to see on stage. Ramirez grinned and said something to Hammack and the keyboard player chuckled. “‘Before You Accuse Me”,’ Wright said to Doc. ‘You know it?’