The Dying Beach

by Angela Savage

  ‘When would that take us to exactly?’

  ‘Start from tomorrow, Sunday, that takes us up to Saturday, April twenty-fifth.’

  Jayne frowned and picked up the serviette. For a moment, Rajiv thought she was going to burn a hole in it. Instead she placed her cigarette in the ashtray and leaned forward.

  ‘I’ve been on my own a long time, Rajiv. I’m used to making decisions for myself. I don’t respond well to being told what to do.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ he said, meeting her gaze. ‘If it was up to me, Jayne, we would not even be having this conversation.’

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. In the background Michael Jackson sang about keeping it in the closet.

  ‘Okay, okay, seven days maximum,’ she said finally, retrieving her cigarette. ‘And I apologise if it sounded like I was ordering you around. I admit I need to get better at this partnership thing, especially the joint decision-making. But the nature of our work doesn’t always allow time for niceties. You need to grow a thicker skin.’

  Rajiv nodded, accepting her point. Had he insisted on an explanation back at Suthita’s place, they’d have still been there when the police arrived.

  ‘I should be growing a thicker skin but maybe losing the beard?’ he suggested.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am thinking of what precautions I can take to avoid police detection.’

  Jayne gave him a rueful smile and ran her fingers through her dark curly hair. ‘I don’t know if I can cut my hair short. I’ve spent the last year growing it back. I suppose I could always dye it red.’

  An image flashed into Rajiv’s mind: Suthita’s hair matted in the blood that pooled on the floor beneath her head. He felt the bile rise in his throat. How could he be agreeing to take a closer look?

  ‘Do you have any of those fake IDs we bought on Khao San Road?’

  He recalled the day, weeks earlier, when Jayne had marched him down to Bangkok’s backpacker precinct to have a range of false identification papers made up for him. Press credentials, student card, international youth hostel membership, each referring to him by a different name and date of birth. Tools of the trade, she called them.

  He rifled through his wallet. ‘I have the student card and the press credentials.’

  ‘Let’s use the student ones. When we check into the new guesthouse, we’ll tell the receptionist we left our passports in Bangkok. Pick somewhere away from the beach where they can’t afford to be as choosy.’

  ‘You are asking me to find accommodation for us?’

  She inhaled sharply from her cigarette. ‘I figure it’s better that way since you’re in charge of the budget. Besides, I need to find a hairdresser.’

  Such was the power of Jayne’s charm, Rajiv could almost forget his fear. At least, it took his mind off it for a while.

  10

  ‘You need a clever wife,’ Othong’s mother told him. ‘Trouble is the clever ones will notice there’s not much inside that pretty head of yours. But if you take my advice, son, smile a lot and keep your mouth shut, you might just pull it off.’

  Othong respected his mother. She’d brought him up on her own after his father was killed in a car accident. Othong knew she only teased to protect him, to confuse the jealous spirits so they wouldn’t take him away.

  With her advice echoing in his ears, he flashed his winning smile at the girl behind the counter at Barracuda Tours. She had dtah lai—eye squint—and didn’t look very clever. He figured he could risk talking to her.

  He introduced himself as Pla’s cousin, smiled sadly when they talked about her death, made small talk, flirted a little. He could tell by the way the girl giggled that his charms were working.

  He leaned over the counter and whispered, daring the girl to share his secret. ‘Tell me, little sister, did my cousin Miss Pla have many farang friends?’

  The girl edged closer and glanced around the empty office. ‘A farang woman was in here only this morning asking about her. Miss Pla was very popular with the tourists.’

  ‘What farang?’ Othong resisted the urge to seize the girl by the collar of her pink polo shirt and shake the information from her. ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Lovely white skin,’ the girl said. ‘Long black hair.’

  ‘As nice as your black hair?’ Othong ventured.

  The girl blushed and brushed one hand over her ear. ‘Not straight like mine. Curly.’

  ‘Sounds nice,’ Othong said.

  ‘But a bit chubby,’ the girl added.

  ‘Old, young?’

  ‘In between.’

  ‘Short, tall?’

  ‘In between,’ the girl said again. ‘Taller than me. Not as tall as you.’

  ‘And what did this farang want from Miss Pla?’

  ‘She wanted to book another tour with her. Like I said, your cousin was popular with tourists.’

  Othong’s confidence started to waver. ‘So this farang was just a tourist?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the girl said. ‘She could speak Thai very well, though she spoke in English with her boyfriend.’

  ‘What boyfriend? Another farang?’

  ‘No.’ The girl wrinkled her nose. ‘Black skin, like chao leh.’

  ‘She’s dating a sea gypsy?’

  The girl giggled and shook her head. She was starting to get on Othong’s nerves.

  ‘I don’t know what is his country,’ she shrugged. ‘Where do black people come from?’

  Othong ignored the question. It would be easy to track down a couple like that in a place as small as Krabi. The thought made him slap the counter with delight. The girl jumped.

  ‘Little sister, you’ve been a great help.’

  He hesitated as an unasked question struggled to the surface.

  ‘What did the farang say when she found out Miss Pla was dead?’

  ‘She asked about where the funeral would be held. I didn’t know so I sent her to talk to Miss Pla’s roommate.’

  ‘Khun Suthita?’

  ‘Chai,’ the girl nodded. ‘Yes, Khun Suthita. You know her?’

  Othong felt the rage boil up inside him. This stupid girl was the reason he hadn’t found what his uncle was looking for. The farang had beaten him to it.

  Jai yen yen, he told himself. Keep your cool and nobody will get hurt.

  ‘I know her,’ he muttered.

  He gave the girl a perfunctory wai and almost made it out the door when she piped up with, ‘Older brother, why do you ask all these questions?’

  In a flash he was back at the counter. He placed one hand over the girl’s mouth and grabbed the smallest finger of her right hand with the other, jerking it back until tears welled in the girl’s lopsided eyes.

  ‘My business is not your concern,’ he snarled. He grabbed the next finger along and saw with satisfaction the terror in her eyes. ‘You won’t mention our little conversation to anyone will you?’

  She shook her head.

  He bent the second finger back far enough to hurt, before releasing his grip. The girl fell to the floor behind the counter in a faint.

  Stupid bitch, he thought. Why did she have to make him lose his temper when all she had to do was leave the questions to him?

  He fired up his motorbike, plotting his next move. He needed to find out where Miss Pla’s funeral would be held and stake out the place until he could ambush the farang.

  11

  The open-air restaurant was at the end of a narrow path that curved around the east end of Ao Nang beach, a collection of huts decorated with driftwood and shells, tables clustered around trees on the sand. Not the sort of place Jayne would usually choose—the food was better at the local night market—but ideal for blending in among the backpackers on a Saturday night.

  The sun was setting by the time she arrived, lights coming on over the bar and kitchen. Lanterns hung from the trees, and candles sheltered in glasses on the tables. Jayne was surprised to discover that despite the hour it had taken to c
olour her hair, she’d arrived at their rendezvous before Rajiv.

  She found a table overlooking the sea and ordered two beers from a Thai waiter in frayed jeans, a red bandana around his neck.

  The last of the longtail boats drifted into shore across the face of the setting sun. Jayne usually found twilight a relaxing time, but the vista that evening seemed angry, the sun like a bloody wound against a swollen pink sky. She was more disturbed by what they’d witnessed that day than she let on. But she couldn’t let Rajiv sense her uneasiness, not when she was trying to talk him into taking on the case.

  She supposed it was only fair they compromise on the budget. What she’d do if they hadn’t reached a solution in a week’s time was a bridge to cross later. She hoped Rajiv understood that while she bristled when challenged, she didn’t hold it against him. Quite the contrary. When she said she was used to being on her own, it was without nostalgia.

  The waiter reappeared with her order. Jayne wondered if she should start worrying about Rajiv. She glanced over at the entrance to the restaurant and caught the eye of a man at an adjacent table. He gave her a grin that might have looked sleazy on a less boyish face and she quickly looked away. She took a swig from her beer and looked back at the ogling boy.

  ‘Rajiv?’

  ‘I am wondering how long it will be taking for you to recognise me.’ He joined her at the table. ‘Is this a beer for me?’

  Jayne nodded, speechless.

  ‘I am liking your new look,’ he continued, taking a seat. ‘Red hair suits you.’

  ‘You,’ she said. ‘You look so…so…’

  ‘Handsome?’

  ‘Young.’

  ‘Well, the idea is to be impersonating a student, isn’t it?’

  He had a point. But clean-shaven with short back and sides, Rajiv looked at least ten years her junior. Anyone who didn’t know them would think Jayne was one of those desperate, middle-aged white women who’d picked up a Third World toy boy on her holidays. Kai keh kup kai orn, as the Thais say. The old hen with her green rooster.

  Such fears were only confirmed when the waiter reappeared and, without a glance at Rajiv, asked Jayne if she was ready to order.

  ‘What do you think we should have?’ she asked Rajiv.

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘I am happy for you to always be ordering the food for us. You know more about Thai food than me.’

  How had it escaped her notice that she always did the ordering?

  ‘You should choose.’

  Rajiv gave her what she thought of as his shrug-nod, conferred with the waiter, and placed the order in his best Thai. Jayne resisted the urge to correct his pronunciation and lit a cigarette, determined to be more vigilant in future about sharing the decision-making between them.

  ‘Given we’ve only got a week, we’d better get down to business,’ she said, once the waiter left them. ‘We need to figure out our strategy for looking into the deaths of these two women.’

  ‘Are you thinking the two deaths are related?’

  ‘We can’t know for sure. But I’ve been mulling over the state of Suthita’s room.’ She suppressed a shudder, hoped Rajiv didn’t notice. ‘It was neat as a pin when we visited this morning, and a complete mess this afternoon. Every cupboard door opened, every drawer emptied, including those on Pla’s side of the room. Even if Suthita wanted to trash her room before killing herself, why would she go through drawers and cupboards she knew to be empty?’

  ‘A good point,’ Rajiv said. ‘But we don’t believe she killed herself, isn’t it?’

  ‘Correct. I think whoever killed Suthita was looking for something belonging to Pla.’

  ‘But we have all of Miss Pla’s possessions and there’s nothing—’ Rajiv hesitated. ‘The notebook?’

  Jayne took it from her bag and put it on the table. ‘It’s the only thing I can think of.’

  She leafed through the pages. ‘The notes are in Thai but Pla frequently uses an English acronym, EIA.’

  ‘EIA? It stands for Environmental Impact Assessment. I learned about them in business studies.’

  ‘I might’ve known you’d know.’ Jayne patted the orange and yellow hearts on the cover. ‘I’d like to have a go at a detailed translation to see what’s in these notes.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘I won’t really know until I get going. A few hours, maybe.’ She took a drag on her cigarette. ‘I’ll also contact my mate Gavan at the Bangkok Post and ask him about environmental issues in this part of the country.’

  ‘It’s a shame you couldn’t get more information out of the police this morning,’ Rajiv said. ‘We could try interviewing officers on a different shift, but I am thinking we should avoid them for now. Just in case.’

  ‘I agree,’ Jayne said, butting out her cigarette. ‘We could try tracking down the farang from Princess Beach. She might be able to tell us something about the state Pla’s body was found in.’

  ‘Really? You are not thinking she was too shocked by the discovery of a dead body to notice much in the way of detail?’

  Jayne shrugged. ‘No harm in asking.’

  ‘In that case, I will conduct a search of the hotels while you translate Pla’s notes,’ Rajiv said.

  ‘I found a mobile phone among Pla’s things. Could you take a look at it?’

  He nodded. ‘I should also be going into Krabi town to check for email messages. We need to keep our paying customers happy if we are to fund our pro bono work.’

  ‘Speaking of funding, before I start on Pla’s notes, I’d like to head out early tomorrow to the temple to see about making a donation for the funeral.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They sipped their beers in silence, watching as the Andaman Sea dissolved into the darkness.

  12

  Jayne knew of two foundations in Bangkok that provided free coffins and funeral services for people who died destitute or whose bodies were unclaimed by loved ones. A third foundation operated in the provinces, but didn’t reach as far south as Krabi. It was left to local temples to arrange cremation and either scatter the deceased’s ashes or inter them in a chedi on temple grounds. At the monks’ discretion, the normal three days of funeral rites might be reduced to one. With this in mind, Jayne and Rajiv set out early on a rented motorbike to shop for gifts for the monks.

  The Ao Nang market reeked of live fish dying slowly in the sun, apart from the aisle selling temple offerings, which smelled of dying fish and sandalwood. Jayne and Rajiv bought three orange plastic buckets containing washing powder, soap, toothpaste, sugar cubes, jars of instant coffee, candles and incense sticks, all wrapped in cellophane like hampers. One bucket fitted in the basket on the front of the motorbike. Jayne balanced another on the seat in front of her, leaving Rajiv to carry the third while gripping the back of the seat with his free hand. Jayne drove slowly to appease him, allowing her to take in the scenery.

  Towering karst mountains of ochre and grey were draped in green vines and rose from lush jungle on both sides of the road, a landscape reminiscent of Conan Doyle’s Lost World. Wat Sai Thai was signposted not as a temple but as an ‘Ancient Sea Shell Site’, nestled in a clearing between the road and the mountains. Behind the single-storey building at the entrance was a crematorium with a tall chimney, and beyond that, rows of ornate chedi like miniature temples, the Thai equivalent of tombstones. A Buddha statue as big as a city bus reclined against the base of a cliff beneath a concrete shelter, a knowing smile on his face.

  The first monk to cross their path tried to steer Jayne and Rajiv around the side of the mountain to the shell fossil site. When Jayne explained the purpose of their visit, he registered the orange buckets and gestured towards the building by the entrance. A sign over the door said rong liang, dining hall. They were met by a second monk, who ushered them past clusters of tables and chairs to a room that was empty apart from a white coffin against one wall in a nest of floral wreaths.

  The monk, a youngish man whose orange r
obes encircled his pot belly like a girdle, knelt on a flat square cushion in the middle of the room. Jayne and Rajiv joined him on the cool tiled floor, Jayne maintaining a respectful distance and sitting in mermaid pose to keep the soles of her feet from view. She tried not to look at the coffin.

  ‘A funeral, you say?’ The monk directed his questions to Rajiv. ‘For a drowned girl with no family?’

  ‘That’s correct, Phra,’ Jayne replied, using the honorific reserved for monks and nobles. ‘We were told Khun Chanida’s funeral would be held here at Wat Sai Thai and we’d like to make a contribution to the cost of the ceremony.’

  The monk rubbed at the shaved patches where his eyebrows had been.

  ‘Ah, Khun Chanida,’ he said, still addressing Rajiv. ‘Yes, yes. I know the case you are talking about. Her body will come here later today from Krabi Hospital.’

  So soon? Jayne wondered what the prompt release of Pla’s remains implied about the autopsy results.

  She addressed the monk again. ‘When will the funeral ceremony take place, Phra?’

  ‘Normally the chanting would commence Tuesday and the cremation take place on Thursday.’ He glanced at the orange buckets. ‘But the length of the ceremony depends on the generosity of Khun Chanida’s friends.’

  He raised his shaven eyebrows at Rajiv, who took it as an opportune moment to hand over the buckets. As women were not permitted to pass anything directly to monks, Jayne gave hers to Rajiv to place at the monk’s feet.

  The monk tilted forward to inspect the contents. ‘Traditionally there are nine monks to conduct the chanting.’

  Rajiv dipped his head to apologise for the shortfall in buckets.

  ‘The temple will provide a coffin but the cremation will require coal.’

  ‘Phra, we will be happy to make a donation to cover the cost of fuel for the cremation,’ Jayne said.

  ‘For the feasting—’

  ‘Master is happy to advise young novice that the temple will cater for Khun Chanida’s funeral.’ The interjection came from an older monk who joined them in the hall. Wizened, dark and lean, he gave the young monk an exasperated look, and beamed at Jayne and Rajiv.