The Dying Beach

by Angela Savage

  They retraced their steps to the pharmacy and opened the door. It was like walking into a large cupboard, with its dark wood panelling, glass-fronted display cabinets and walls of tiny drawers. On the shelves behind the counter were rows of seashells as big as babies’ heads.

  A bell over the door drew out the pharmacist, an angular woman in a white coat and horn-rimmed glasses. Jayne asked for directions to the phu yai ban. The pharmacist grunted and waved them back to where they started.

  They continued past the pier, and seemed to enter a different village altogether. The eastern end of Laem Kruad was distinctly Muslim. Women wore headscarves. Old men wore lace caps. Some signs were in Arabic as well as Thai. Despite the heat, the streets were bustling. Women dished out snacks from vendor carts—roti pancakes smothered in condensed milk—while men sat talking at tables in the shade. Ornate bamboo birdcages dangled from the eaves of every building and the air was filled with birdsong. Some of the birds were of such startling aqua and green they looked as if they’d come from the Andaman Sea itself.

  ‘Bulbul.’ Rajiv nodded at a black-and-white bird with bright red cheeks and a pointy black crest. ‘They are popular cagebirds in India, too.’

  ‘They’re known here as nok khuad jook. Topknot birds.’ Jayne pulled her hair into a tuft to demonstrate, making Rajiv grin.

  They ducked through a gap in a bank of caged bulbuls and were ushered through a shop to the restaurant behind, which looked out over the pier and nearby islands. The place was deserted apart from an old man, who sat by the railing with a bulbul in a cage on the table in front of him.

  When he stood to greet them, the folds of his white sarong almost brushed the floor. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt, cream vest and a white crocheted cap. His hair and beard were also white, but his black eyes were bright and his olive skin had the radiance of a younger man. His smile revealed what appeared to be rare in the district, a set of straight white teeth.

  After exchanging greetings, the village headman, whose name was Ali, invited them to sit. He summoned a girl to bring them cold drinks.

  ‘My granddaughter,’ he said, as she disappeared into the shop. ‘Now, how can I help you?’

  Jayne was too hot and bothered to beat around the bush.

  ‘Chai,’ she said, taking out her notebook. ‘We’ve come to talk with you about the proposed power plant at Pakasai.’

  ‘Are you more consultants?’ Ali addressed the question to Rajiv, who shook his head.

  ‘We are friends of Miss Pla,’ Jayne persisted.

  ‘Ah, Miss Pla,’ Ali said, beaming at her. ‘She is a good friend of Laem Kruad village.’

  ‘Then I have news that may sadden you, Chai,’ Jayne said. ‘Miss Pla passed away late last week.’

  Ali’s smile dimmed. ‘That does indeed sadden me. Please, tell me what happened.’

  ‘It’s alleged Miss Pla drowned in the sea off Princess Beach,’ Jayne said.

  Ali nodded, said nothing.

  ‘But we have questions about the circumstances of her death. We know Miss Pla was helping villagers negotiate with the power company over the proposed plant. Maybe she made enemies in the process, people who might have wanted to harm her.’

  The reappearance of his granddaughter gave Ali a moment to consider the idea. The girl placed tall icy glasses of lemon juice in front of Jayne and Rajiv, and a glass of hot green tea for her grandfather. Jayne took a long, grateful sip; the juice was spiked with sugar and salt.

  ‘The people of Laem Kruad and the villages upstream had concerns about the discharge of wastewater from the power plant and its impact on the quality of water in the khlong,’ Ali said when the girl had gone. ‘Many people are frightened that the fish and shrimp nurseries in the mangroves will be affected. The company sent the aquatic health specialists to meet with us and, while they maintain there is no risk, they have agreed to monitor water quality with tests every six months. Miss Pla and her farang friend helped negotiate that.’

  ‘Mister Porn?’ Jayne said. ‘He visited Laem Kruad?’

  Ali nodded. ‘When the consultants from Bangkok were here.’

  ‘So have those measures allayed the concerns of the people of Laem Kruad?’

  ‘For the most part. We are still concerned about the transportation of fuel by barge along the canals to the power plant. If ever there was an accident…’ He gestured to the view. Across a broad stretch of water were islands fringed with mangroves and, beyond them, an undulating horizon of forested hills. Longtail boats meandered between the pier and the islands. On the pier a family—father in shorts and singlet, mother in long sleeves and a sunhat, and two small boys—watched their fishing rods for signs of movement.

  ‘We have lived for generations in harmony with the environment,’ Ali said. ‘I may be an old man but I’m no fool. I know change comes as surely as death. But we do what we can to sift the goodness from the harm in whatever fortune befalls us. That’s all Pla was helping us to do. Why would anyone want to hurt her for that?’

  ‘She would’ve made things inconvenient for the company.’

  ‘I never had that impression,’ Ali said. ‘I think the consultants needed Pla. When they went back to Bangkok with our recommendations, they had proof to show they’d been listening to the villagers.’

  Jayne paused to translate for Rajiv.

  ‘It is the same thing Mae Yada said, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Jayne nodded, sighed and put away her notepad. The old man had returned his attention to the birdcage, chirping softly at the bulbul.

  ‘Are you teaching that bird to talk, Chai?’ Jayne asked.

  Ali shook his head. ‘I’m teaching her to sing. I’m counting on this one to win the keng nok championship.’

  Keng nok. Songbird contests. Was there nothing the Thais couldn’t turn into a competition?

  ‘With all due respect, Chai, how can a person teach a bird to sing? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?’

  Ali smiled. ‘Her voice is her own. But I teach her the tunes she needs to win.’

  Jayne shared Ali’s words with Rajiv on their walk back to the motorbike.

  ‘It’s like what they say about Miss Pla,’ Rajiv said. ‘The villagers’ voices are their own, but she’s taught them the tunes to sing—how best to use their voices.’

  It was an astute and beautiful observation, but Jayne was too impatient to do it justice. They’d spent half a day listening to different people say the same thing over and over without bringing them any closer to explaining Pla’s death.

  She mounted the bike and put on her helmet. ‘Let’s go.’

  Rajiv unhooked the second helmet from the handlebars. ‘Where to?’

  Jayne pretended not to hear him and fired up the engine. Rajiv took a step back.

  She switched off the ignition and lifted her visor. ‘What?’

  ‘Are you forgetting again that we are partners?’

  Jayne sighed and removed her helmet. ‘Sorry, old habits and all that. I figured we’d go to Neua Khlong town next, see if we can track down this Bapit. It’s on the way back to Krabi.’

  She saw scepticism on Rajiv’s face. ‘Okay, Rajiv, tell me what you’re thinking. But can you make it quick? I’m not sure how long I’ll last in this sun.’

  ‘I am thinking that I don’t know what to be thinking, Jayne. We have been visiting the villages closest to the power plant and if there was ever any controversy about the project in the past, I am no longer seeing any evidence of it. Everyone has only good things to say about Miss Pla, so much so that I’m starting to wonder whether our logic is faulty.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We assume there is a connection between the deaths of Miss Pla and Miss Suthita. But what if the deaths are unrelated?’

  ‘We have good reason to believe foul play was involved in Suthita’s death,’ Jayne said.

  ‘Yes, but we are assuming that because Miss Suthita’s death is suspicious, Miss Pla’s must be also. Because it seem
s wrong that she should drown. But what if we are mistaken?’

  He gestured at the road ahead of them. ‘It is like this village. If we are turning only right at this point in the road, we would leave Laem Kruad in the firm belief that this is a quiet Chinese-Thai village. If we are turning only left, we would believe Laem Kruad is a lively village of songbird-loving Muslims.’

  ‘But we didn’t,’ Jayne said. ‘We saw both sides of Laem Kruad. We looked at the big picture—like we’re trying to do with Pla’s death.’

  Rajiv shook his head. ‘All what I am suggesting is that we do not go off half-cocked interrogating any more people until we have some stronger leads.’

  Jayne could recognise an impasse when she saw one. Rajiv wanted facts where she could only offer him intuition. She might have put up a fight, except she knew an effective case needed both. Besides, it was too hot to argue.

  ‘And how do you propose we get some stronger leads?’ she asked, through gritted teeth.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Rajiv said. ‘Perhaps if we’d been able to talk with the farang who found Pla’s body…’

  Jayne’s mind ticked over. ‘There might be another way. We could get a look at the forensic report, or at least talk to whoever did the autopsy.’

  ‘Would that really help? Surely if there was evidence of foul play, the police would have intervened.’

  She gave him a withering look. ‘The cops get paid to cover up things like this all the time. We shouldn’t assume no police investigation equals no evidence of foul play.’

  Rajiv still looked sceptical.

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll forget about Bapit for now. Let’s go to Krabi town. I’ll see if I can track down the forensic examiner and you can check our email and line up more clients for our return.’

  This seemed to pacify Rajiv, who put on his helmet and climbed up behind Jayne as she restarted the engine.

  Still, as they drove past the turnoff to Neua Khlong town, Jayne couldn’t shake the feeling they were taking the wrong route.

  29

  They stopped for a late lunch at a crowded food stall inside the Krabi market, spared further conversation by a mouth-numbing stir-fry of bamboo shoots, fish balls and chilli. Rajiv left for the internet café, saying he would make his own way back and meet Jayne at the guesthouse.

  A call to Police Major General Wichit at the Tourist Police headquarters in Bangkok gave Jayne the name of the forensic examiner and the hospital where she was based. She caught sight of her reflection in the glass doors of the hospital and made a beeline for the bathroom. Riding a motorbike along dirt roads in searing heat had taken its toll. Dust and sweat formed a film of mud on her forehead, her mascara had run and her nose was pink despite the sunscreen she applied compulsively. Her fingernails were filthy and her hair, unruly at the best of times, resembled seaweed. As she dabbed her face with wet toilet paper, Jayne questioned not for the first time the wisdom of living in a country where she consistently fell short of local standards of decorum—standards in which the forensic examiner Doctor Nuchanad proved to be first-rate.

  The doctor’s lab coat was blindingly white, her hands manicured, her hair cowered into a tight bun. She wore no make-up, her face glowing as if she’d exfoliated in her lunch break.

  Jayne might have interpreted the doctor’s excessive cleanliness as a defence mechanism, a way of transcending the mess of human viscera in her work, except that in Thailand such cleanliness was a matter of national pride.

  Jayne introduced herself and dropped Police Major General Wichit’s name. Doctor Nuchanad said she couldn’t show Jayne the forensic report on Khun Chanida Manakit, but she agreed to talk about it if Jayne would put in a good word for her with the police major general. She’d always wanted to work in Bangkok.

  ‘The autopsy resulted in a finding of death by drowning,’ Doctor Nuchanad said.

  Jayne looked over the doctor’s shoulder at the certificates on the office wall. The framed photo on her desk was of a fluffy white cat. A woman for whom work was very important.

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble, Doctor, would you explain how a forensic examiner comes to such a finding?’

  Doctor Nuchanad’s eyes lit up at the prospect. ‘Well, some pathological changes are characteristic of drowning but the diagnosis is largely one of exclusion.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘There are signs—like the presence of foam in the airways and fluid on the lungs—that are characteristic of drowning. But these signs can also be found in deaths from other causes, such as heart failure, drug overdose and head injury. The solution is to rule out the other possibilities. In Khun Chanida’s case, we were able to rule out heart attack and drug overdose through pathology.’

  ‘What about head injury? Could she have been hit before she entered the water?’

  ‘It’s difficult to distinguish ante-mortem from post-mortem injuries in bodies recovered from the water,’ the doctor said. ‘Water immersion leaches the blood from ante-mortem wounds—’

  ‘Kor thort na ka, Doctor,’ Jayne said, struggling to grasp the technical language. ‘Can you explain in simple terms?’

  Doctor Nuchanad gave her an indulgent smile. ‘A wound inflicted prior to drowning will bleed, but the blood is often washed away as the body is buffeted about in the water. A wound that occurs after drowning isn’t supposed to bleed, but because corpses in water always lie face down with the head hanging, blood tends to get congested in the head. Therefore injuries to the face and head after drowning can bleed.’

  Jayne was starting to feel sorry she asked. ‘Were there wounds on Khun Chanida’s body?’

  ‘There were head and facial injuries consistent with the body sinking and bumping up against the rocks. The ligature marks were most likely inflicted during the recovery of the body,’ Doctor Nuchanad said.

  ‘Ligature marks?’

  ‘The body was secured by boatmen while they waited for the police to arrive.’

  Jayne took a moment to process all the information. ‘It actually sounds quite difficult to reach a verdict of drowning.’

  Doctor Nuchanad took it as a compliment. ‘As I said, the diagnosis is largely one of exclusion. By ruling out pre-existing health conditions and signs of drug or alcohol use, and in the absence of suspicious circumstances, accidental death by drowning is a logical conclusion when a young Thai woman’s corpse is founding floating in the sea.’

  ‘So there were no suspicious circumstances in this case?’

  ‘I factor the police report into my verdict,’ Doctor Nuchanad said.

  ‘So the police found no suspicious circumstances.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ the doctor said, glancing at her watch. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Khun Jayne. I am due in the laboratory.’

  Jayne chose her words carefully. ‘Tell me, doctor, would it have made a difference to your diagnosis to know that Khun Chanida was a strong swimmer and worked as a diving instructor for a tour company in Ao Nang?’

  She could’ve sworn she saw a hair on Doctor Nuchanad’s head slip out of place as she hastened to her appointment.

  Jayne made her way back to Ao Nang to return the rented motorbike. While she might have given Doctor Nuchanad pause, she had little to offer Rajiv as proof that foul play was involved in Pla’s death. She might distract him by discussing how surprisingly inconclusive the forensic evidence is when it comes to death by drowning. But not for long. He would argue, quite sensibly, that the time had come to wind up their investigation and return to Bangkok. And she had no grounds to convince him otherwise. Nothing but a gut feeling as persistent as an intestinal parasite.

  Othong felt his uncle’s eyes on him all morning, as if the old man could read his mind. Bapit made no mention of the dead farang. But Othong couldn’t shake the feeling his uncle knew about it, knew Othong had fucked up again. It pained him that Uncle Bapit persisted in focusing on his faults when he was only trying to protect his uncle’s interests.

  Time came around for
the lunch break. Othong ate less than he normally would so his uncle wouldn’t think him greedy. He kept one eye on his watch, barely dozing in place of his usual nap to ensure he wouldn’t be late back from the break. He was first to resume shovelling when the afternoon shift began. But his uncle seemed not to notice any of his efforts.

  Cranky with fatigue and nursing a mild headache, Othong frowned when a man walked into the compound and handed him a note. He deciphered it slowly, reading not being his strong suit.

  ‘Chanting for drowned girl starts tonight. Cremation Thursday.’

  The message was from his friend Fatty. Othong looked up but the messenger had already gone. His headache lifted on a surge of energy. The farang was almost within reach. She was bound to turn up for the funeral, if not the chanting for the two nights beforehand. He would go to the temple that evening and lie in wait for her like a lion. Sooner or later, she would come to him.

  Othong forgot his beef with his uncle. He channelled his excitement into his labour, finishing the load in record time. The effort impressed Bapit, who raised his eyebrows in grudging respect. But Othong was too preoccupied to give it any weight.

  30

  Jayne decided to drop into the Barracuda Tours office on her way back to the guesthouse to let the staff know about Pla’s funeral arrangements. She stood in line at the counter behind a woman with cropped blonde hair whose sleeveless white shirt accentuated her tan. She was surprised to hear another farang speaking Thai, even more so when she realised what the woman was talking about.

  ‘At which temple is the funeral for Miss Pla?’ the woman asked the pretty boy behind the counter.

  ‘Yes, at the temple.’ The boy nodded.

  ‘But which one?’ she persevered. ‘What is the name of the temple?’

  ‘Yes, the temple,’ the boy said again.

  Jayne stepped forward. ‘I think I can help.’

  The woman turned to face her, blue eyes framed by square spectacles. Jayne noted that she not only spoke Thai but had mastered the art of the exasperation-masking smile.