The Dying Beach

by Angela Savage

  While Jayne searched her bag for her phone, Rajiv stole a glance at the fax.

  ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ the last line said. ‘Me and Jina would love to have you and Rajiv over for dinner when you get back to Bangkok.’

  Me and Jina. You and Rajiv. He was grateful Jayne was too preoccupied to notice him blushing.

  ‘Have you tried returning the call to Pla’s phone from last night?’ he ventured, as Jayne typed in her message.

  ‘Yes,’ she said without looking up. ‘Still no answer.’

  He got out of bed to use the bathroom and returned to find Jayne standing by the wardrobe with the door open.

  ‘I’m thinking about how we might approach the golfing people.’ She spoke as if addressing the clothes, his lined up on hangers in an orderly row, hers skulking in a mound on the floor. ‘I wonder if they have an ironing service here.’

  Their challenge was to find out what was going on with the golf course without putting the developers on the defensive. To this end, Jayne suggested they pose as potential investors looking for business opportunities in the province.

  They planned their strategy over a breakfast of khanom jin at a sidewalk café in Krabi town, then found a quiet coffee shop where Jayne phoned the Apex Enterprises office. Sweet-talking the secretary got her to the Project Manager, an American by the name of Pamela Schwartz.

  ‘I am calling on behalf of Mister Ravi Shastri, Director of Surya Enterprises,’ Jayne said, glancing at the script she and Rajiv had put together. ‘Mister Shastri is in Thailand to inspect a range of investment opportunities and his contact at the Ministry of Commerce recommended your project in Krabi. Mister Shastri would value the chance to meet, especially if you are seeking investors at this time.’

  ‘And you are?’ Her tone was wary.

  ‘Jennifer Keyes,’ Jayne replied, ‘Mister Shastri’s personal secretary. Mister Shastri is en route to Malaysia to inspect his assets, but must return soon to India to attend to his royal duties.’

  ‘Royal duties?’ Pamela said.

  Jayne checked her notes. ‘Mister Shastri is the son of the Rani of Jhansi and heir to the principate.’

  ‘We are actually seeking investors at this time,’ the American said quickly.

  ‘I’m afraid Mister Shastri is only in Krabi today.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Jayne heard paper being shuffled, followed by a muffled hiss.

  ‘I have a slot at three-thirty this afternoon,’ Pamela said.

  ‘Please wait one moment.’

  Jayne put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘She can meet us at half past three. That should give us enough time to get kitted out. Say something so it sounds as if I’m consulting you.’

  ‘Half past three is suitable,’ Rajiv said, deadpan.

  ‘That time is suitable for Mister Shastri,’ Jayne said to Pamela. She made a point of taking down the address before terminating the call.

  Their next stop was a department store with the unlikely name of Vogue, which looked like a cinema from the outside but stocked the clothing, footwear, hair accessories, electrical goods and Hello Kitty paraphernalia typical of Thai department stores. They rode vertiginous escalators to menswear on the second floor.

  Rajiv dressed in smart casual as a matter of course, usually wearing trousers with a button-down shirt or kurta. Jayne had teased him for packing a suit to wear for their visit to the Thai consulate in Penang, but she had to admit it would come in handy now for their meeting at Apex Enterprises. Rajiv chose a new white business shirt to wear with the suit, while Jayne found some accessories to help get him into character. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses that made him look older, gave him a little gravitas. An imitation gold Rolex. A cheap but flash-looking pen, and a gold holder for his fake business cards.

  ‘I am thinking you enjoy this aspect of your work.’ He grinned as she held a blue-and-silver striped tie against his shirt front.

  ‘I know I’m getting carried away.’ She swapped the striped tie for a red one patterned with small gold diamonds. ‘Sometimes I think I became a detective as an outlet for my thwarted theatrical ambitions.’ She waved the red tie like a streamer. ‘This one’s better.’

  Jayne put together a truly dowdy ensemble for her own role as private secretary to the princely Mister Shastri, secretly relishing the chance to pose as Rajiv’s subordinate. She chose a fitted powder-blue skirt, a cream crepe blouse with pearl buttons and a bow at the neck, and beige peep-toe shoes. She searched in vain for unadorned hair accessories—lacy clips encrusted with pearls and diamantes wouldn’t work for the serious, matronly image she aimed to project—settling instead on talcum powder to make her hair look greyer, a trick she’d learned in school theatre.

  They took the stairs from women’s fashions. On the landing they came across a coin-operated fortune-telling machine: a glass case containing a rotund, laughing Buddha with a purple crystal in one hand and what looked like a twig in the other. At his feet was a wheel like a tiny circular-saw blade, with a number on each notch. A little figure in traditional loincloth and matching sash stood poised to crank the wheel. Below the case was a bank of pigeonholes numbered from one to twenty-eight, each containing slips of paper.

  ‘Let’s have a go,’ Jayne said.

  She slipped a five-baht coin into the slot. The little figure started moving, turning the wheel. The Buddha’s purple crystal lit up as he raised the arm holding the twig, then brought it down on the wheel to stop it from turning. The little man froze. The twig rested on the number twelve.

  Jayne took a note from the corresponding pigeonhole, her fortune written in Thai and Chinese.

  ‘I’ll translate it later,’ she said. ‘Do you want a turn?’

  Rajiv shook his head. ‘I will not be tempting fate.’

  ‘It’s just a bit of fun. You know I don’t believe in any of this stuff.’

  Rajiv nodded his head. ‘Yes, but I do.’

  Back at the guesthouse, Rajiv checked his reflection in the mirror. He imagined this was how he would look if he’d taken up the offer to work in Uncle Dinesh’s import-export company in Bangalore. But Rajiv chose to leave India in search of adventure, trading the promise of a middle-management position, a steady income and an arranged marriage for a much less predictable future. A decision that in an ironic twist now required him to pose as the kind of businessman he’d hoped never to become.

  As a tribute to his uncle he borrowed the company name, Surya Enterprises, for his fake business cards; he chose his fake name as a more heartfelt tribute to Ravi Shastri, the former Indian cricket team captain, and listed his role as Director. The Rani of Jhansi, whom he claimed for his mother, was in fact a legendary figure who revolted against the British annexation of her kingdom and died in battle in 1858.

  He straightened the gold-rimmed glasses, slipped his cardholder into his jacket and clipped the pen to the outside pocket. He’d polished his loafers and paired them with socks, the way European men did. His last step was to comb his hair, adding a trace of oil to keep it in place.

  ‘You look just the part.’ Jayne stood next to him in front of the mirror and fastened her fake pearl necklace. ‘Whereas I look like a complete dag.’

  ‘A dag?’

  ‘The tail of a sheep. Or the droppings that hang from the sheep’s tail. I’ve never been sure which. Let’s just say looking like a dag is not a compliment.’

  ‘It’s true those colours are not the most flattering on you,’ Rajiv said.

  ‘I’m channelling Miss Marple, going for the middle-aged frump look guaranteed to render me invisible.’ She leaned into the mirror and applied some lipstick. ‘Ghastly colour. Reminds me of high school dances in the 1980s. Corsages, shoulder pads, beer-soaked taffeta frocks and frosted pink lipstick.’ She shuddered.

  Rajiv had no idea what she was talking about, but sensed some kind of affirmation was called for.

  ‘You still look beautiful to me.’

  ‘You’re a terrible liar,’ she said.
‘And normally I like that about you. But Rajiv, in half an hour you’re going to need to lie with conviction. Do you think you can do it?’

  He glanced at his reflection and straightened his tie.

  ‘I prefer to think of it as acting,’ he said. ‘And I will not tolerate such an impertinent question from an inferior.’

  20

  The office of Apex Enterprises, the company behind the Scenic Mountain Driving Range, was an eyesore of chrome and smoked glass in a row of whitewashed shop-houses with thresholds of coloured tiles. Jayne and Rajiv were met with a chilly blast of air conditioning and a receptionist whose smile was set at the same temperature. They were ushered into a meeting room, and glasses of iced water materialised, followed moments later by a brunette whom Jayne recognised as the companion of the loud American in Pla’s tour group. For a second, she thought their cover was blown. But neither the woman nor Rajiv gave any indication of having recognised one another. Jayne, as predicted, seemed invisible.

  ‘I’m Pamela Schwartz,’ she began. ‘Welcome, Mister Shastri, or should I call you Your Highness?’

  ‘Ravi will be fine.’

  ‘Thank you for your interest in our project, Prince Ravi,’ Pamela said.

  ‘Please, just Ravi. And it’s I who should be thanking you for seeing me at such short notice.’ He nodded in Jayne’s direction. ‘My secretary, Mrs Keyes.’

  Jayne gave the American a limp handshake. ‘Miss Schwartz.’

  ‘Pamela, please.’

  Jayne pursed her lips as if the thought of addressing a senior executive and complete stranger by her first name offended her sensibilities. But Pamela and Rajiv, aka Ravi, were too busy exchanging name cards to notice.

  ‘Please, Pamela, tell me all about the Scenic Mountain Driving Range. The name alone sounds alluring.’

  ‘Oh, you like it?’ Pamela said. ‘I thought of it myself. And when you visit the site, you’ll see where I got the inspiration. Are you able to visit the site?’

  ‘I was hoping to, that is, if we can fit it in. We’re due to depart for Malaysia at six.’

  ‘For sure,’ Pamela said, waving away a woman with a tray of oranges; someone had taken the trouble to peel them into flowers. ‘We’ll drive out there now. We’ll take my car. We can talk on the way.’

  They piled into a white Toyota Landcruiser with the Apex logo on its side, Pamela in front with the driver, Jayne and Rajiv in the back. Pamela angled the rear-view mirror so she could speak to Rajiv’s reflection.

  ‘The driving range was my husband’s idea. He’s an avid golfer.’

  ‘And there are no other golf courses in Krabi?’ Rajiv asked.

  ‘The Electricity Generating Authority of Thailand owns a course. But it’s some distance from here and attracts a mostly Asian market. We want to develop a venue with a more universal appeal.’

  Jayne glanced at Rajiv to see if he was offended, but he merely nodded and said, ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘The land required for the driving range is much smaller than what’s required for an eighteen-hole golf course,’ Pamela continued. ‘And when the opportunity came to purchase the site, we were very excited.’

  ‘And the previous owners?’ Rajiv asked. ‘I understand you are renovating a former limestone quarry.’

  Pamela frowned. ‘Former limestone quarry? I’m not sure where you got that idea, Ravi. That land was state owned. Apex bought it in partnership with a Thai firm directly from the government.’

  ‘Curious,’ Jayne muttered. Gavan needed to check his sources.

  ‘Who holds the majority share?’ Rajiv asked.

  ‘On paper it’s the Thai firm. But we have an understanding. Rest assured your investment would be safe.’

  There was nothing particularly controversial in what Pamela implied. While foreigners were prohibited from owning land outright in Thailand, Jayne knew there were local companies that subsisted purely on the commissions they were paid as silent partners.

  Rajiv gestured out the window to the rugged landscape surrounding them. ‘Are you having to do much to the site to convert it for use as a driving range?’

  ‘Not a great deal, as it happens,’ Pamela said. ‘We removed some boulders, levelled the ground, did some minor landscape reshaping. The local villagers had been using the site illegally to graze cattle. That kind of worked in our favour.’

  ‘So have the local villagers objected to the project?’ Jayne chimed in. She saw the severity of Pamela’s frown in the rear-view mirror and turned to Rajiv. ‘Sir, I am thinking of our experience in Maharashtra.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, following their script. ‘The story I am telling you, Miss Pamela. In Maharashtra, the opposition of local villagers to resettlement derailed the project permanently. I would not like to be repeating the experience.’

  ‘I can assure you no villagers will be resettled as a result of this project,’ Pamela said.

  ‘So the villagers are in favour?’

  ‘This driving range will bring them prosperity,’ Pamela said curtly. ‘Apex will provide local jobs and improve infrastructure for everyone’s benefit. Of course they’re in favour.’

  ‘I am sure you have put forward a most convincing case,’ Rajiv said, flashing a charming smile. ‘Now tell me more about the facilities at Scenic Mountain.’

  Jayne tuned out while Pamela waxed lyrical about cafés, equipment-for-hire outlets and souvenir shops. Their questions about local opposition had clearly touched a nerve. It felt like they were getting closer to what Pla had been working on. Next stop once they finished the tour would be the nearest village.

  They turned off the highway onto a graded but unsealed road lined with trees weighed down by dust. The car rounded a bend and a view opened before them of a carpet of red dirt, fringed by thick green forest, against a backdrop of jagged limestone cliffs. A small yellow grader basking in the sun sprang to life as they got out of the car.

  ‘It is indeed scenic,’ Rajiv said, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘Possibly the most scenically located driving range in the world.’

  Pamela beamed like a proud parent. ‘You still have to use your imagination a little. But it will look gorgeous once we put the turf in.’

  ‘Would you be so kind as to show me around?’ Rajiv asked.

  They walked off without waiting for Jayne, who decided to conduct her own site appraisal.

  At one end of the perimeter was a mound of rocks. Jayne wondered if this was what became of the boulders that Pamela’s people had cleared from the land. She turned to ask the driver whether explosives had been used on the site but he was nowhere to be seen.

  The mid-afternoon heat was merciless. Jayne’s blouse stuck to her back, and rivulets of sweat trickled down her throat to pool in her cleavage. She moved into a patch of shade at the edge of the excavation, where the protesting voices of crickets could be heard over the grader engine.

  Rajiv had told her that golf was the most environmentally damaging pastime in the world due to the vast quantity of chemical fertilisers, pesticides, herbicides and water required to maintain a course. But she was struck in the immediate sense by the land clearing, the ugly expanse of red dust against the backdrop of forest and mountains. Lost in these thoughts, it took a moment to realise Rajiv was calling her.

  ‘Mrs Keyes?’

  ‘Coming, Mister Shastri.’ She stepped out of the shade to join him.

  ‘I believe I’ve seen enough,’ he said. ‘And Miss Schwartz has provided me with a most excellent prospectus.’ He handed her a document folder embossed with the Apex logo.

  ‘Please let me drop you back at your hotel,’ Pamela said.

  ‘That would be most kind.’

  Jayne followed them back to the vehicle, scowling at having her plans thwarted to lose Pamela and head straight for the nearest village, without having to double back into town. But she perked up when saw the driver squatting behind the car, shaking his head. Both rear tyres were completely flat.

  ‘What the h
ell—’ Pamela began.

  The driver shrugged and flashed a teeth-gritting grin designed to withstand the angry outburst he knew was coming.

  ‘One tyre I can change with the spare, madam. But two…’ He whistled between his teeth and shook his head. ‘It is very bad luck.’

  The way he pronounced madam made it sound suspiciously like he was addressing her as ‘black dog’ in Thai.

  ‘Bad luck?’ Pamela spluttered. ‘Bad luck? This isn’t about luck. This is goddamn sabotage. I do apologise,’ she added, remembering her guests. ‘But this is the third time in two weeks we’ve had multiple flats.’

  ‘Perhaps the road?’ Rajiv gestured at the gravel track they drove in on.

  ‘No, it’s got to be the mechanic. Sam, that so-called friend of yours is cheating me,’ she said to the driver. ‘I’m calling my husband to organise a tow to a different garage this time.’

  She rifled through her handbag. ‘I must’ve left the phone in the glove compartment.’

  Still checking her bag, Pamela didn’t watch where she was going. As she neared the front passenger door, she gave a loud cry and shouted, ‘Goddamn it!’

  Rajiv hurried to her side with Jayne in close pursuit.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Schwartz?’

  Pamela groaned. She’d stepped in what appeared to be a fresh cow pat, dung oozing through her sandals onto her toes.

  Rajiv found bottled water in the car and while he argued with Pamela over the degree of assistance she would permit him to give her, Jayne scanned the scene.

  There was no sign of any cow, not even hoof prints. The grader operator had remained in his cabin the whole time. Apart from Rajiv and Pamela, there was only herself and Sam the driver, who was looking at her with his teeth-gritting grin.

  21

  Samyan was happy to be given the task of hiking along the service road to flag down a vehicle for the foreign visitors. His jaw ached from the strain of keeping a straight face. Had he caught one of her visitors in his trap, Miss Pamela might have lost more face, but only just. And there was no denying the sweet revenge of seeing his farang boss with cow shit on her shoes.