“No, Mr. Gottesman, it was not his watch. And you should know that I have only just finished talking to the head of security at the airport.”
The bodyguard slowly put down his glass of orange juice.
“Your client was wearing a bullet-proof vest under his shirt and he was told by security staff that he could not wear it on the plane, isn’t that the case, Mr. Gottesman?”
The Israeli said nothing and his face remained a blank mask.
“They made him remove the bullet-proof jacket and check it in to the hold,” said Inspector Zhang.
“If that happened, I didn’t see it. I’d already left the security area.”
“Nonsense, you are a professional bodyguard, your job requires you to stay with him at all times. No bodyguard would leave his client’s side. And I also spoke to the hotel where Mr. Srisai stayed. There were reports of a shot this morning. A gunshot. At the hotel.”
The bodyguard shrugged carelessly. “That’s news to me,” he said.
Inspector Zhang’s eyes hardened. “It is time to stop lying, Mr. Gottesman.”
“I’m not lying. Why would I lie?”
Inspector Zhang pointed a finger at the bodyguard’s face. “I know everything, Mr. Gottesman, so lying is futile. You were with Mr. Srisai when he was shot. The chief of security at the hotel told me as much.”
“So?”
“So I need you to explain the circumstances of the shooting to me.”
The bodyguard sighed and folded his arms. “We left the hotel. We were heading to the car. Out of nowhere this guy appeared with a gun. He shot Mr. Srisai in the chest and ran off.”
“Which is when you realised that your client was wearing a bullet-proof vest under his shirt.”
The bodyguard nodded.
“And that came as a surprise to you, did it not?”
“He hadn’t told me he was wearing a vest, if that’s what you mean.”
“The vest that saved his life.”
The bodyguard nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Can you explain to me why the police were not called?”
“Mr. Srisai said not to. The shooter ran off. Then we heard a motorbike. He got clean away. He’d been wearing a mask, so we didn’t know what he looked like. Mr. Srisai said he just wanted to get out of Singapore.”
“And he wasn’t hurt?”
“Not a scratch. He fell back when he was shot but he wasn’t hurt.”
“And you went straight to the airport?”
“He didn’t want to miss his flight.”
“And he didn”t wait to change his clothes?”
“That’s right. He said we were to get into the car and go. He was worried that the police would be involved and they wouldn’t allow him to leave the country.”
Inspector Zhang turned to look at Sergeant Lee. “Which explains why there was a bullet hole in the shirt and gunpowder residue.”
Sergeant Lee nodded and scribbled in her notebook. Then she stopped writing and frowned. “But if he was wearing a bullet proof vest, how did he die?” she asked.
Inspector Zhang looked at the bodyguard. Beads of sweat had formed on the Israeli’s forehead and he was licking his lips nervously. “My Sergeant raises a moot point, doesn’t she, Mr. Gottesman?”
“This is nothing to do with me,” said the bodyguard.
“Oh, it is everything to do with you,” said Inspector Zhang. “You are a professional, trained by the Mossad. You are the best of the best, are you not?”
“That’s what they say,” said the Israeli.
“So perhaps you can explain how an assassin got so close to your client that he was able to shoot him in the chest?”
“He took us by surprise,” said the bodyguard.
“And how did the assassin know where your client was?”
The bodyguard didn’t reply.
“You were moving from hotel to hotel. And I am assuming that Mr. Srisai did not broadcast the fact that he was flying back to Bangkok today.”
The bodyguard’s lips had tightened into a thin, impenetrable line.
“Someone must have told the assassin where and when to strike. And that someone can only be you.”
“You can’t prove that,” said the bodyguard quietly.
Inspector Zhang nodded slowly. “You are probably right,” he said.
“So why are we wasting our time here?”
“Because it is what happened on board this plane that concerns me, Mr. Gottesman. Mr. Srisai was not injured in the attack outside the hotel. But he is now dead. And you killed him.”
The bodyguard shook his head. “You can’t possibly prove that. And anyway, why would I want to kill my client?”
Inspector Zhang shrugged. “I am fairly sure that I can prove it,” he said. “And so far as motive goes, I think it is probably one of the oldest motives in the world. Money. I think you were paid to kill Mr. Srisai.”
“Ridiculous,” snapped the Bodyguard.
“I think that when Mr. Srisai’s former bodyguard was killed, someone close to Mr. Srisai used the opportunity to introduce you. That person was an enemy that Mr. Srisai thought was a friend. And that someone paid you not to guard Mr. Srisai, but to arrange his assassination. But your first plan failed because unbeknown to you Mr. Srisai was wearing a bullet-proof vest.”
“All this is hypothetical,” said the bodyguard. “You have no proof.”
“When Mr. Srisai passed through the security check he was told to remove his vest. Which gave you an idea, didn’t it? You realised that if you could somehow deal him a killing blow through the bullet-hole in his shirt, then you would have everybody looking at an impossible murder. And I have no doubt that when you got off the plane you would be on the first flight out of the country.” He turned to look at Sergeant Lee. “Israel never extradites its own citizens,” he said. “Once back on Israeli soil he would be safe.”
“But why kill him on the plane?” asked Sergeant Lee. “Why not wait?”
“Because Mr. Srisai was not a stupid man. He would have come to the same conclusion that I reached – namely that Mr. Gottesman was the only person who could have set up this morning’s assassination attempt. And I am sure that he was planning retribution on his return to Thailand.” He looked over the top of his spectacles at the sweating bodyguard. “I’m right, aren’t I, Mr. Gottesman. You knew that as soon as you arrived in Thailand Mr. Srisai would enact his revenge and have you killed?”
“I’m saying nothing,” said the bodyguard. “You have no proof. No witnesses. You have nothing but a theory. A ridiculous theory.”
“That may be so,” said Inspector Zhang. “But you have the proof, don’t you? On your person?”
The bodyguard’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the Inspector with undisguised hatred.
“It would of course be impossible for you or anyone to bring a gun on board. And equally impossible to bring a knife. Except for a very special knife, of course. The sort of knife that someone trained by Mossad would be very familiar with.” He paused, and the briefest flicker of a smile crossed his lips before he continued. “A Kevlar knife, perhaps. Or one made from carbon fibre. A knife that can pass through any security check without triggering the alarms.”
“Pure guesswork,” sneered the bodyguard.
Inspector Zhang shook his head. “Educated guesswork,” he said. “I know for a fact that you killed Mr. Srisai because you were the last person to see him alive. You went over to him after the journalist went back to his seat and you must have killed him then. You went to the toilet to prepare your weapon and when you came back you leant over Mr. Srisai and stabbed him through the hole that had been left by the bullet that had struck his vest earlier in the day. You probably put one hand over his mouth to stifle any sound he might have made. With your skills I have no doubt that you would know how to kill him instantly.
The bodyguard looked up at Captain Kumar. “Do I have to listen to this nonsense?” he asked.
“I am a
fraid you do,” said the pilot.
“I know you have the knife on your person, Mr. Gottesman, because you have been sitting in that seat ever since Mr. Srisai was killed,” said Inspector Zhang. He held out his hand. “You can either give it to me or these Thai police officers can take it from you. It is your choice.”
The bodyguard stared at Inspector Zhang for several seconds, then he slowly bent down and slipped his hand into his left trouser leg before pulling out a black carbon fibre stiletto knife. He held it, with the tip pointing at Inspector Zhang’s chest, then he sighed and reversed the weapon and gave it to him.
Inspector Zhang took the knife between his thumb and finger. There was congealed blood on the blade. Sergeant Lee already had a clear plastic bag open for him and he dropped the knife into it.
Inspector Zhang stood up and the two Thai policemen pulled the bodyguard to his feet. He put up no resistance as they led him away.
“So the Thai police will take over the case?” asked Sergeant Lee.
“The victim was Thai, the murderer is Israeli. The crime was committed in Thai airspace. I think it best the Thais handle it.”
“And the Commissioner will be satisfied with that?”
Inspector Zhang smiled. “I think so far as the plane is allowed to fly back to Singapore, the Commissioner will be happy,” he said.
Sergeant Lee closed her notebook and put it away. “You solved an impossible mystery, Inspector Zhang.”
“Yes, I did,” agreed the Inspector. “But the real mystery is who recommended Mr. Gottesman in the first place, and I fear that is one mystery that will never be solved.
“Perhaps you could help the Thai Police with the investigation.”
Inspector Zhang’s smile widened. “What a wonderful idea, Sergeant. I shall offer them my services.”
THE END
There are three more Inspector Zhang cases available on Kindle – Inspector Zhang Gets His Wish, Inspector Zhang And The Falling Woman, and Inspector Zhang And The Disappearing Drugs. And there will be more cases for Inspector Zhang to solve in the near future.
In the meantime, if you would like to meet another detective based in Asia, why not try Bangkok Bob and the Missing Mormon?
Long-term Bangkok resident and former New Orleans cop Bob Turtledove has the knack of getting people out of difficult situations. So when a young man from Utah goes missing in Bangkok, his parents are soon knocking on Bob’s door asking for help.
But what starts out as a simple missing person case takes a deadly turn as Bangkok Bob’s search for the missing Mormon brings him up against Russian gangsters, hired killers, corrupt cops and kickboxing thugs. And he learns that even in the Land of Smiles, people can have murder on their minds.
Here are the first few chapters:
CHAPTER 1
She was wearing a lurid Versace silk shirt, had a diamond-studded Rolex watch on her wrist, diamante Gucci sunglasses perched on top of her head and a Louis Vuitton handbag on her lap. She pretty much had all brand name bases covered but she still looked like a sixty-year-old woman with more money than taste. She had brought her large Mercedes to a stop next to a fruit stall and she wound down the passenger side window and waved a ring-encrusted hand at the fruit vendor. I was sitting behind her in a taxi that had only just managed to avoid slamming into her trunk.
The fruit vendor was also in her sixties but had clearly had a much harder life than the woman in the Mercedes. Her face was pockmarked with old acne scars and her stomach bulged against her stained apron as she weighed out mangoes for a young housewife. The fruit vendor pocketed the housewife’s money and waddled over to the car and bent down to listen to the woman, then nodded and hurried back to her stall. The driver tapped out a number on her cell phone and began an animated conversation.
“Hi-so,” said my taxi driver, pulling a face. He wound down his window, cleared his throat, and spat a stream of greenish phlegm into the street.
Hi-so.
High society.
From a good family. But in Thailand being from a good family didn’t necessarily equate to good manners. The woman in the Mercedes almost certainly wasn’t aware of the dozen or so cars waiting patiently for her to get out of the way. And even if she was aware, she wouldn’t have cared. After all, she had the Mercedes and the diamond-encrusted Rolex and we didn’t, so it really didn’t matter that she was holding us up. It was the natural order of things.
There was no point in getting upset. She would move when she was ready, and not before and there was nothing that I or the taxi driver could say or do that would change that. Acceptance was the only option.
The Thais have an expression for it.
Jai yen.
Cool heart.
Don’t worry.
Be happy.
Sometimes, for emphasis, they say jai yen yen.
Real cool heart.
I settled back in my seat and turned to the letters page of the Bangkok Post. A reader in Chiang Mai was complaining about the air quality. The farmers around the city were carrying out their annual field burnings and the mayor had warned the population to stay indoors with their windows closed. A Manchester City fan was complaining that he could only get a Thai commentary for his team’s last match. A reader in Bangkok was complaining about his erratic cable wi-fi service. For many people Thailand was the Land Of Smiles, but the average Bangkok Post reader seemed to spend most of his time complaining about the state of the country.
The fruit vendor hurried over to the Mercedes with a bag of mangoes. She handed them through the window. The woman put her cell phone on the dashboard and then took the mangoes out of the bag one by one, sniffing them and squeezing them to check their ripeness. She rejected one, and the fruit vendor went back to her stall to replace it. The woman picked up her cell phone and resumed her conversation.
I twisted around in my seat. There were now two dozen cars behind us, and a bus. The air was shimmering with exhaust fumes.
Jai yen.
I went back to my paper. A tourist from Norway was complaining of the double pricing for foreigners at the Lumpini Boxing Stadium. Tourists paid up to ten times what locals were charged, she said, and that wasn’t fair. I smiled. Fairness wasn’t a concept that necessarily applied to Thailand, especially where foreigners were concerned.
The fruit vendor returned with a replacement mango. The woman smelled it, squeezed it, then put it into the carrier bag. She opened her Louis Vuitton handbag and took out a Prada purse and handed the vendor a red hundred baht note. The vendor zipped open the bag around her waist, slipped in the banknote and took out the woman’s change. The woman took the change, checked it, put the money into the Prada purse, put the purse into her handbag, placed it on the passenger seat and closed the window. I didn’t see her thank the fruit vendor, but that was par for the course for Thailand. Women who drove expensive imported cars did not generally say “please” or “thank you”, at least not to fruit vendors. The window wound up, the woman checked her make-up in her driving mirror, then put the Mercedes into gear.
We were off.
Finally.
Jai yen.
The taxi moved forward. The Mercedes lady was talking on her cell phone again. She indicated a right turn but then turned left on to Sukhumvit Road, oblivious to the motorcycle that narrowly missed slamming into her offside wing.
The traffic light turned red and the taxi jerked to a halt. There were two policemen sitting in the booth across the road from us. It was getting close to the end of the month which meant that the police were looking for any excuse to pull over motorists and either issue a ticket to meet their quota or collect some tea money to pay their minor wife’s rent. Bangkok’s traffic light system was perfectly capable of being co-ordinated by a multi-million-pound computer system but more often than not the police would override it and do the changes manually, using walkie-talkies to liaise with their colleagues down the road. That meant that when a light turned red, you had no idea how long it would
stay that way. Your fate lay in the hands of a man in a tight-fitting brown uniform with a gun on his hip.
Jai yen.
I went back to my paper. My taxi driver wound down his window and spat throatily into the street again.
Just another day in Paradise.
Not.
CHAPTER 2
Ying is a stunner. A little over five feet tall with waist-length glossy black hair and cheekbones you could cut steel plate with, a trim waist and breasts that are, frankly, spectacular.
Whoa, hoss.
Stop right there.
I’m married and old enough to be her father.
And I’m her boss, hoss.
She looked over her shoulder and flashed her perfect white teeth at me as I walked into the shop.
My shop.
Dao-Nok Antiques. It’s sort of a pun on my name. Dao-Nok is Thai for turtle-bird and my name’s Turtledove. I’m not sure if anyone else gets it but it makes me smile.
Ying was carefully rolling bubble-wrap around a wooden Chinese screen that we were shipping to Belgium. “Good morning Khun Bob,” she said.
Khun. It means mister, but it’s also a sign of respect. She respects me because I’m older than her and because I’m her boss.
“You are late,” she added, still smiling.
Not much respect there. But she wasn’t being critical, she was just stating a fact. I was normally in the shop by nine and it was now nine-thirty.
“There was a mango queue,” I said.
“I see,” she said, even though she didn’t.
“All the way down Soi Thonglor.”
“I told them you wouldn’t be long.”
“I see,” I said, even though I didn’t.
“They’re waiting, in your office.”
I frowned. “And they would be…?”
“An American couple. They need your help.”
There was a coffee maker by the cash register and I poured myself a cup and took it upstairs. The door to my office was open and my two visitors looked up, smiling hesitantly. He was a big man run to fat, in his mid to late forties. His wife was half his size, with wispy blonde hair, and probably five years younger. He pushed himself up out of his chair and offered me his hand. It was a big hand, almost square with the fingernails neatly-clipped, but it had no strength in it when we shook. “Jonathon Clare,” he said in a Midwestern accent. “This is my wife Isabelle.”
Inspector Zhang And The Dead Thai Gangster (a short story) Page 4
