The Dying Beach

by Angela Savage

  ‘Sawadee ka loong.’ Jayne greeted the headman respectfully as Uncle. ‘My name is Jayne and this is Rajiv.’

  ‘Welcome.’ The old man stayed seated, and greeted them with a wai. ‘I am Uncle Amnat.’

  He had the face of a man who’d spent his whole life frowning into the sun, eyes squinting beneath a deeply wrinkled brow. The lines on his forehead formed an arrow pointing south to a broad smile. He wore a yellow polo shirt, a colour associated with the Thai king, over faded jeans. His feet were bare.

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘I’m from Australia and my partner’s from India,’ Jayne said. ‘We live in Bangkok.’

  ‘Bangkok, eh. Never been there myself. You speak Thai very well, Khun Jayne. Have you eaten yet?’

  ‘Uncle is very kind. Yes, we have eaten.’

  ‘Some tea then.’ The old man gestured for Jayne and Rajiv to join him. ‘Bring tea, daughter,’ he called to the young woman on the veranda. She looked up from her task of peeling the dense white pith from a pomelo. ‘The power’s off,’ Amnat said as the front door of the house slammed behind his daughter. ‘At least out here we can catch a breeze.’

  They climbed up onto the raised platform alongside the headman. Jayne resisted the urge to sit cross-legged like the men and tucked her feet behind her in the more seemly mermaid pose.

  They made small talk until Amnat’s daughter reappeared with a pot of green tea and a plate of pomelo segments with a small mound of prik geua, a mix of sugar, salt and chilli. At the headman’s urging, Jayne and Rajiv helped themselves to the fruit, dipping it in the spice mix. When the tea was poured and tasted, Jayne broached the subject of their visit.

  ‘Uncle, we seek information about a young woman. We understand she spent time here in Pakasai village during the meetings about the power plant.’ She took Pla’s ID card from her wallet. ‘This is the girl. Chanida, nickname Pla.’

  ‘Of course, we all know Pla,’ Amnat said. ‘She helped us to understand clearly the consequences of the project for our village. Sometimes we villagers feel too shy to ask questions of the experts. But Pla has a lot of experience working with foreigners. She says it’s okay to ask questions. She says foreigners like questions. They don’t lose face like Thai people when we ask them many questions.’

  ‘Did she ever come to the village with anyone else?’

  ‘Mostly she came by herself. One time she came with Mister Porn. From Australia like you. Maybe you know him?’

  Jayne shook her head. ‘How does the village feel about the power plant now?’

  ‘We welcome progress.’ Amnat nodded towards the house. ‘I’ll be able to run my fans all day once the power plant opens.

  ‘With Pla’s help, we got the company to take our concerns seriously. We were worried about the impact of traffic but now we have a commitment from the company for local road improvement. And the men here who worked at the old power plant—those still able to work—will be offered employment at the new site. It was Pla’s idea to ask the consultant to make this recommendation to EGAT.’

  Jayne gave him a sad smile. ‘Uncle, I have bad news. Miss Pla is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Drowned. Her body was found Friday morning off Princess Beach.’

  The old man returned her smile, as though in an unspoken pact not to make this any more distressing. ‘I am so sorry to hear that,’ he said.

  ‘So you didn’t know?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Uncle, I need to ask, can you think of anyone who would want to harm Pla?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Did she have any enemies?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ Amnat said. ‘The people of Ban Pakasai loved Pla. They will be very sad to hear this news.’

  ‘What about outside the village, perhaps, a supporter of the power plant who resented Pla helping you?’

  Amnat shook his head again. ‘We all loved Miss Pla.’

  Jayne leafed through Pla’s transcript of the consultation at what she now recognised as Pakasai village. ‘Does the name Khun Bapit mean anything to you?’

  Amnat’s arrow-shaped frown deepened. ‘Khun Bapit comes from Pakasai village,’ he said. ‘But these days he lives in Neua Khlong town. Khun Bapit is a businessman. He welcomes progress. He did not always see eye to eye with Miss Pla, but I can’t believe he would hurt her.’

  ‘All the same, we would like to talk with him. Can you tell us how to find Khun Bapit?’

  ‘His place is off the highway on the road to the Chinese temple. His company is called Charoen Sand and Gravel Supplies. Find the compound and you will find Khun Bapit. He sleeps close to his money.’

  Jayne made a note of it.

  ‘Is there anything you or anyone else in the village can tell us about Miss Pla that might help our investigation?’

  ‘You should talk to her farang friend, Khun Porn.’

  ‘We’re expecting him at Pla’s cremation on Thursday at Wat Sai Thai.’

  ‘So the funeral ceremony will start today?’

  ‘The monks will begin chanting for Miss Pla tonight. They have also kindly offered to take care of the catering on the day of the cremation.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Amnat said. ‘The people from here and the other villages where Pla worked will supply food. It’s the least we can do to see her soul peacefully into the afterlife.’ The old man summoned his daughter again. ‘Please invite Mae Yada to join us,’ he said to his daughter. ‘She will take charge of arrangements.’

  Jayne recognised the name from Pla’s notes.

  ‘Might we also speak with Mae Yada?’ she said.

  The headman nodded while his daughter refilled their teacups before shuffling off.

  The woman who answered Amnat’s summons cast a broad shadow. She wore a man’s short-sleeved shirt over a simple cotton sarong and worn rubber flip-flops on her feet. Her hair was cut short, her lips stained with betel nut juice. She carried all her weight in her torso, her face and limbs those of the thinner person she once was.

  ‘Sawadee ka,’ she said, flashing teeth the same burnt orange as her lips. ‘Farang,’ she said under her breath to Amnat, still smiling at Jayne and Rajiv. ‘Nothing good ever comes from having farangs in the village.’

  ‘Mae Yada, may I introduce Khun Jayne and Khun Rajiv. Khun Jayne speaks Thai very well,’ Amnat said quickly. ‘They’re investigating the death of Miss Pla.’

  ‘Nang Pla?’ Mae Yada’s smile fell and she teetered as if caught off-balance.

  Another of Uncle Amnat’s female relatives materialised with a small stool, which Mae Yada used as a step to haul herself up into the hut.

  ‘D-dead?’ she huffed. ‘Oh, that poor, sweet girl. What happened?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mae,’ Jayne said. ‘You might be able to help us. Do you know if Miss Pla had any enemies, anyone who might wish her harm?’

  Mae Yada considered the question while catching her breath. ‘Khun Nukun and the experts from EGAT found Miss Pla inconvenient,’ she said. ‘Teh wa mai khii chaang jap tak-ka-tehn.’

  ‘You don’t ride an elephant to catch a grasshopper.’ Jayne smiled at the idiom, the Thai equivalent of not using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. Mae Yada was right: murdering Pla would be overkill.

  ‘Anyway, they needed her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The old woman spat a rust-coloured wad into the dust. ‘Pla and her farang friend helped them to get the job done. The company is obliged to show they consulted local villagers and took their opinions into account. So they ask us many questions. With Pla’s help, we give them our opinions and tell them about our concerns. They come back later with changes to their plans and say, “Here, we have listened to you and given you what you wanted.”’

  Mae Yada sighed. ‘It’s not Pla’s fault. She did her best. But there was never any question the power plant would be built in Pakasai. We were offered every choice except the one that matt
ers most: “Do you want this power plant?”’

  Jayne gazed up at the woman, whose girth now blocked the breeze that had kept them cool. If the company wanted to rid itself of troublemakers, surely they would target someone like Mae Yada and not Pla.

  ‘So not EGAT, nor the consultants,’ Jayne said. ‘Anyone else? Was there any gossip?’

  ‘Rumour is she and the farang from Bangkok mii arai kan.’

  ‘Mii arai kan,’ Jayne repeated. ‘They had something going on?’

  Mae Yada nodded.

  ‘Mister Porn,’ Uncle Amnat weighed in.

  Mae Yada screwed up her nose. ‘Guesthouse owner in Ao Nang says Pla spent nights with him during his visits. Silly girl, everyone was bound to find out.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the guesthouse?’ Jayne asked.

  ‘Brother Singh’s place,’ Mae Yada said. ‘The Sea View.’

  Rajiv raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s where we are staying, isn’t it?’

  Jayne nodded, turned back to Mae Yada. ‘Was there anyone else? A local boyfriend, perhaps, someone jealous?’

  Mae Yada shook her head. ‘It wasn’t like that. Pla was a good girl—too good for that farang, if you ask me.’

  Thai good, farang bad. It would really mess with the old woman’s worldview if a local turned out to be responsible for Pla’s death.

  Rajiv suggested they ask the headman if he ever contacted the consultants directly. Uncle Amnat eased himself to the ground, his legs not quite straightening as he crossed the yard into the house. He re-emerged with a small plastic tray and placed it in front of Jayne and Rajiv like an offering. The tray contained at least one deck, possibly two, of worn playing cards, several loose cigarettes, a packet of matches, a laminated photograph of a young monk—too recent to be Amnat, possibly a son or grandson—oddments of string, wire and fishing line, a pencil, some baht coins and several business cards.

  ‘I have name cards from all the consultants, Thai and farang, who have visited the village,’ Amnat said as he fished them out. ‘They give them to me knowing I will never use them.’

  ‘You sure, Uncle?’

  He nodded and shuffled the tray as if to restore order. They thanked him and climbed down from the hut.

  Mae Yada gave them a half-hearted wai, and the village headman would not let them leave until his daughter had pressed two whole pomelos on them.

  26

  Bapit glanced at his watch. Typical of Othong to be late for work the morning there was a large order to load. Three trucks were assembled inside the compound, with six young guys already at work shovelling gravel into the trays. If it wasn’t for Othong’s brute strength, Bapit would have sacked him long ago, regardless of their blood ties. But the fact was that Othong could work at twice the rate of most men his age. If he only had the brains to match, Bapit might have considered grooming him to take over. But Othong was like a cow that needed to be tethered by the nose to stop it from wandering into traffic.

  Bapit walked along the driveway of the Charoen Sand and Gravel Supplies compound, keeping an eye out for his nephew, and taking the opportunity to cast his eye over the employees’ motorbikes parked by the warehouse. Mindful of Sergeant Yongyuth’s advice, he looked for anything that stood out, anything shiny, new, out of the ordinary. He didn’t see it. The motorbikes, though clean, were worn, decals not quite hiding the blistering paint on one, tyres almost bald on another. A couple of his employees still rode bicycles to work. Bapit defied anyone to murder a farang woman and make a getaway by bicycle.

  Finding no grounds to suspect he was harbouring a murderer that morning, Bapit was poised to withdraw to his office when a motorbike roared into view. He recognised the broad shoulders of his nephew. Othong was driving too fast, tyres leaving black tracks on the road as he screamed to a halt.

  ‘Morning, Uncle,’ he said, dismounting at the top of the driveway and wheeling his bike to the parking bay. ‘Sorry I’m late. Slept in.’

  Bapit looked him up and down, registered the reflective sunglasses and a new bomber jacket, neither of which he’d noticed before. The jacket was ostentatious, red satin with a tiger on the back. Brand new.

  ‘Where did you get that jacket?’ Bapit asked as Othong snapped the motorbike stand into place.

  ‘Like it? Bought it at Vogue.’ He leaned closer and spoke behind his hand. ‘Uncle made me burn my last one, remember?’

  ‘Where did you get the money?’

  ‘I work for a living, same as everyone else here.’ Othong removed the jacket, folded it and stowed it under his motorbike seat. He made for the loading area but Bapit seized his arm.

  ‘No one else here is parading around in new clothes.’

  Othong shrugged. ‘Different priorities, I guess.’

  Bapit tightened his grip. Othong stared at his uncle’s hand and tensed his muscles, but wouldn’t look him in the eye. Bapit felt the strength in the boy’s biceps, those same muscles that made him money. He knew his nephew worked out at the gym in town and he’d once spied Othong standing bare-chested in front of a mirror, posing like a bodybuilder.

  The boy was young. He was vain. He had his motorcycle mirrors turned inwards so he could see himself, not what was behind him as he drove. Bapit wouldn’t put it past him to blow a week’s wages on a satin bomber jacket.

  ‘I’m docking fifty baht from your pay for being late,’ Bapit said. Othong scowled and tried to shake the old man off, but Bapit dug his fingers in like claws. ‘And if I see that fucking jacket again I will burn it, too.’

  27

  Ban Huay Sok was south of the mine site, a humble village bordered by palm oil plantations, the minarets of its mosque painted the same glossy green as the surrounding palm fronds. A woman hauling water from a well directed Jayne and Rajiv to the village headman’s house, a modest wooden building lined on one side with ceramic jars large enough to hide an adult. A small barefoot child with a baby strapped to her back showed them to the rubber plantation where her grandfather was working.

  With its leafy canopy and colonnades of trees, the plantation offered sanctuary from the punishing heat. The trees were carved with serpentine incisions to extract the resin, which flowed into small coconut-shell cups attached to the trunks. The high priest of this leafy temple was bare-chested and wore a faded blue-and-black checked sarong around his waist. He carried a knife with a crescent-shaped blade, which he pressed between his hands as he returned their greetings.

  He introduced himself as Headman Jaturun and ushered them to a small open-sided hut in the middle of the plantation. He poured water from a thermos into a communal cup and offered it to them. Jayne took a sip and passed it to Rajiv, who followed suit. The water was lukewarm and tasted of dust. Rajiv passed the cup back to Jaturun, whose face lit up in a gap-toothed grin. Up close, the priest of the rubber-tree temple looked like a bandit.

  Having already sat through one interview with a headman, Rajiv was able to follow a good deal of Jayne’s conversation with Jaturun. Like his counterpart in the previous village, Jaturun appeared unaware of Pla’s death and distressed to hear the news. He insisted the people of Ban Huay Sok loved Pla and would never do her any harm.

  ‘Mai mee khu aree,’ he insisted. ‘Mee teh pheuan.’

  Pla had no enemies in Huay Sok village, only friends, Rajiv understood him saying. Jaturun described Pla’s role as Amnat had done, as an advocate who’d given the villagers the confidence to voice their concerns.

  ‘He says they have Pla to thank for getting the power company to agree to pipe water from the project site to the village,’ Jayne told Rajiv. ‘He says the water quality is better than the bore wells they currently rely on.’

  The old man gestured at the thermos as if to prove his point.

  ‘Jaturun feels strongly that the mystery of Miss Pla’s death cannot be solved in Huay Sok village.’

  The old man said something else to Jayne, which Rajiv didn’t catch. He asked her to translate as they made their way back through the plant
ation to where the motorbike was parked.

  ‘He said the villagers will want to attend Pla’s funeral. And there was something I didn’t catch—it sounded like nou-ree.’

  ‘It’s a ritual feeding performed at major points in the life cycle, such as birth and death,’ Rajiv said. ‘A Muslim tradition, but it’s linked to animist beliefs.’

  ‘How the hell do you know a thing like that?’

  Rajiv nodded his head. It was no secret. He read books. Not as Jayne did, to escape from the world, but to develop a deeper understanding of it. According to Rajiv’s research, whether Muslim or Buddhist, Thai people believed spirits were all around them and must be appeased. Much like Indian people did.

  But as they pulled out of Huay Sok village, the one who most needed appeasing was Jayne. Rajiv sensed her frustration building like monsoonal rain. They were making no headway with the case, leaving him to wonder if they had a case at all.

  How to break that news to Jayne?

  28

  The last of the villages Paul mentioned was Laem Kruad, the Cape of Small Stones. Jayne parked the motorbike where the sealed road ended at a T-intersection, opposite the entrance to the Laem Kruad Pier.

  They turned right, heading west. Laem Kruad village looked distinctly Chinese. Wooden houses lined the road, shutters closed tight as packing crates. Over the doorways were banners, pasted like labels, of red and gold Chinese characters to augur wealth and good fortune. Ancestral shrines jutted out from pillars and walls, with small shelves bearing incense, fruit and cups of tea.

  The street was empty, though a sandwich board by the side of the road indicated the beauty salon was open for business, and muted conversation was audible behind the closed door of the pharmacy. Jayne and Rajiv walked to where the road ended at a compound, a Chinese temple visible over the top of a red metal gate. Gold dragons faced off along the ridge of the temple roof, teeth bared and whiskers bristling.