‘Her name means “golden jasmine flower”,’ the emcee said. ‘And what an appropriate name it is, for she is precious like gold, and pure as a white flower.’
Several men whistled loudly and the emcee raised his hand.
‘I see we have many eligible bachelors here tonight who recognise a precious jewel when they see one. But only one of you gets to enter the honeymoon suite tonight. Who will it be? Who’ll start the bidding?’
Komet stared around the room in alarm as customers leapt to their feet.
‘One thousand!’ said one.
‘Two thousand!’ shouted another.
‘I’ll pay four thousand!’ a third said, waving baht notes in the air.
‘What’s happening?’ Komet gasped.
‘It’s an auction,’ Pornsak said, cleaning his fingernails with a toothpick. ‘Farangs pay top dollar for a virgin.’
‘But this isn’t right!’
‘Oh, come on,’ the sergeant said. ‘We all like the young ones.’
Komet had been with a prostitute only twice. At the age of sixteen, he and some friends pooled their money to visit a woman in the neighbouring village. She was much older and, by accommodating the urges of randy, teenage boys, was seen as protecting the purity of young women in the area. Komet remembered little of the experience except that it was soon over. Several years later, drunk, he’d ended up at a brothel in Chiang Mai with a group of fellow recruits. The girl there was maybe eighteen and pretty, too, but she just wanted the money and Komet didn’t enjoy himself. Since marrying Arunee, he’d never felt the urge to go out for sex. Though they were abstaining now she was pregnant according to the custom, for Komet it was worth the wait.
‘Hey, isn’t your wife expecting?’ Pornsak said, reading his thoughts. ‘Maybe you should get a girl for the evening.’
‘But she’s not a girl,’ Komet said, gesturing at the stage. ‘She’s a child!’
‘Yeah, well, you know, farangs aren’t like Thai people,’ the sergeant said, affecting an air of worldliness. ‘They have strange tastes.’
But that doesn’t make it right, Komet thought.
The bidding had reached 10,000 baht and was still rising. An old, bald farang with thick glasses was waving his hand in the air in front of the stage. At another table, the only other Asian man there—Japanese or Korean by the looks of him—was bidding by raising a single finger. A group of younger men argued amongst themselves, one trying to raise his hand while his friends held him back. The emcee appealed to a few others, who shook their heads. The bidding was down to two people.
‘Come now, gentlemen, just look at this pearl, this unplucked lotus,’ the emcee said. ‘Surely you can make a better offer than that?’
Komet stared at Malithong, trying to meet her eyes. But her face was blank and he suspected she’d been drugged. He considered rushing over to rescue her, but knew they wouldn’t have made it to the door.
Komet turned his attention to the table, anything to take his mind off the spectacle on the stage.
‘What are they talking about, do you think?’ he whispered to Pornsak.
‘This farang, Kelly, reckons the lieutenant colonel owes him ’cause it was his idea to have Sanga taken care of,’ Pornsak said. ‘You know, to make it look bad for the Canadian.’
Komet felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. ‘Kelly killed Sanga,’ he said, a statement rather than a question.
‘Yeah, of course, he didn’t do the handiwork himself— hired a guy out of Mae Sai for that. Those kha from the mountains, they’re savages. I mean, you saw the body.’ Pornsak pulled a face. ‘But it was Kelly’s idea.’
It all became horribly clear to Komet. ‘And the lieutenant colonel killed the farang.’
‘Yeah, well, they had to get him out of the way and—’ Pornsak hesitated, suddenly suspicious. ‘Shit, Komet, don’t tell me you didn’t know? I figured that with you in on the investigation—’
‘Yeah, I knew,’ Komet lied. ‘I’m just interested in the details.’
‘Sure, like how much Kelly’s going to pay us, right?’ Pornsak grinned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you, Komet, but there you go! You’re a player now.’
For any other rookie in Komet’s position, this would be a night of triumph, a turning point in his career when he became a ‘player’, as Pornsak put it. But Komet didn’t want to play.
Aware that the crowd had gone quiet, he glanced up. The emcee was looking in the direction of his table.
‘Sixteen thousand,’ the Thai man said. He spoke into the microphone, but the message was clearly directed at Kelly. The farang nodded, said something to Ratratarn, and walked over to the stage.
‘The matter has been settled!’ the emcee said triumphantly. ‘Khun Malithong is to wed Khun…?’
‘Bob,’ the old man with the glasses said.
Komet watched him step onto the stage with a broad grin on his face.
‘A few more minutes,’ Ratratarn said, nodding towards the farang. ‘I’ll get your reward and we’ll be out of here.’
For Komet it was like being offered money from the sale of his own sister. He muttered something about a toilet.
‘Left of the bar,’ Pornsak said. ‘Don’t wander into the honeymoon suite by mistake, will you?’
The sergeant’s laughter burned in Komet’s ears as he crossed the room. Khun Bob reached the doorway at the same time, holding Malithong in the crook of his arm. Again Komet had to resist the urge to snatch her away.
‘Sabaidee, bor?’ he said as he came up alongside her.
The child frowned as if the sound of her native tongue were foreign to her. ‘Am I OK?’ she echoed.
It was only when she spoke that the farang seemed to notice Komet. He took in the police uniform and tightened his grasp on the girl. Komet met his gaze for a moment, the rheumy, opaque eyes of a man old enough to be the child’s grandfather.
All farangs smell like white water buffalo, one of his school friends had told him years before they’d ever seen a foreigner. But Khun Bob lacked the earthy wholesome smell of a buffalo. Beneath the whisky, smoke and aftershave there was an odour like flowers left to rot in a vase.
They backed away from each other, the farang steering the child up a staircase, Komet stepping into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. He turned on a tap and doused his face. In the mirror above the basin his face looked haggard, as if the evening’s events had suddenly aged him. For the first time he resembled his father.
Komet thought of him now: Khanthong Plungkham sitting cross-legged on a grass mat, preparing a tray of betel nut pan wrapped in lime leaves, one of the few pleasures he allowed himself.
‘I have taught you about the Eight Precepts,’ his father had said, ‘and how I followed them diligently as an acolyte. The young people of today see them as old-fashioned and impractical. “Why should we fast from midday to the following dawn?” they ask. “Why go out of our way to ensure a bad night’s sleep by refusing comfortable bedding?” And so I tell them.’
He put the tray of betel nut to one side, tightened the phakhama around his waist and closed his eyes.
‘Such disciplines remind us of what is and isn’t important in this life. They remind us of our humanity and the ephemeral nature of our existence. But, my son, there are other ways we may be reminded of such things…’
His voice had trailed off, and Komet had wondered if the old man had fallen asleep.
‘You shall not kill,’ he said suddenly. ‘You shall not steal. You shall not commit adultery. You shall not lie.’
His father was reciting the Precepts. Komet bowed his head in anticipation of the remaining four rules. No alcohol and drugs. No artificial scents and cosmetics. No attending performances and other forms of entertainment. And the rules about fasting and resting. But they did not come.
At the time, Komet had been puzzled. Why had his father only cited four of the Precepts? Now, however, seeing his likeness to the old man in the mirror, he
understood. He knew what his father meant when he said there were other ways of being reminded of the vulnerability of humankind.
As he made his way back inside the club, Komet felt an inner strength that was new to him, as if he’d invoked his father’s ghost. Or perhaps Khanthong Plungkham’s spirit had been with him all along, just waiting to be recognised.
You shall not kill, Komet chanted silently as he approached the table where Kelly had joined Ratratarn again.
You shall not steal. He watched Kelly hand over a wad of cash.
You shall not commit adultery. The words echoed in Komet’s mind as he followed Ratratarn and Pornsak through the crowd and saw a man fondle the immature breasts of a waitress as she leaned over his table.
‘That’s your cut,’ the lieutenant colonel said as they got into the car.
Komet placed the folded bills in his shirt pocket without looking at them.
‘There’ll be more where that came from on Friday,’ Ratratarn said. ‘But we’ve got to find the Australian girl first.’ He looked in the rear-view mirror to the back seat where Pornsak was counting out his share. ‘Sergeant, I’m putting you on surveillance.’
‘What?’ Pornsak groaned. ‘But, Sir, I mean—’
‘Starting tonight,’ he said. ‘We know the farang girl was a close friend of the dead Canadian. We also know she’s been to the house before. You’re to keep watch and apprehend her if she approaches.’
Pornsak sighed audibly.
‘Komet, I want you to spend the rest of your shift on the phone to all the hotels and guesthouses in Chiang Mai. Ask if anyone matching Jayne Keeney’s description checked in this afternoon. Start with the places outside the main tourist precinct. My guess is she’ll want to keep a low profile.’
‘With all due respect, Sir,’ Pornsak piped up, ‘why are we trying to track down this girl anyway? I mean, we’ve got nothing to worry about from the Canadian Embassy. You said so yourself. And we don’t know if she’s—’
‘Precisely, Sergeant Pornsak,’ Ratratarn cut him off. ‘We don’t know. But I’d say this Jayne Keeney is trying to avoid us, wouldn’t you?’ He paused for effect. ‘And why would anyone go out of their way to avoid the Chiang Mai police?’
Pornsak shifted in his seat.
‘Because, you stupid motherfucker, they’ve got something to hide!’
The sergeant flinched at the insult.
‘This girl is a loose end, and I don’t like loose ends. So I want you and Komet to tie this up so we can close this case. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Pornsak mumbled.
‘Komet?’ Ratratarn said.
‘Yes, Sir.’
Komet turned into the bureau carpark.
You shall not lie his father’s ghost whispered.
Once he overheard the cop tell Kelly he’d make the pick-up on Friday, Mark d’Angelo left the Kitten Club. He couldn’t trust himself to stay a moment longer and not blow his cover by storming the stage to rescue the girl.
Maybe the kid wasn’t as pure as the driven snow. The mongrels who ran these kinds of clubs were known to recycle so-called virgins, smearing a girl’s genitals with chicken’s blood to fool the punters. But the thought that she might not technically be a virgin didn’t make it any easier for Mark to walk away. He used to rescue kids like Malithong in raids on brothels in Cambodia. He’d even dodged bullets once. But that stuff was easy compared with undercover work.
Seven years with the Queensland Police and nearly three with the Feds had taught Mark to keep his emotions in check. He hated paedophiles as much as the next person, but he’d seen what happens when people let their hatred get the better of them. When he first started with the special squad in Brisbane, he was assigned to work with a Sergeant Thompson who’d been tracking a suspected paed for over a year. When they finally brought the guy in, they had something like thirty-two counts against him. During a recess in the interview, Mark left the room and Thommo simply lost it. Beat the absolute shit out of the guy. It not only ruined Thommo’s career, it fucked up the case as well: they had to let the bastard go.
It was an object lesson for Mark. You’ve gotta keep a cool head on your shoulders, he told himself. His ZTCP trainer, Karen, said much the same thing, and stressed the importance of having some sort of outlet, such as playing a sport, to manage the emotional impact of the job.
Karen had taught Mark and his AFP colleagues a lot. She talked about ZTCP’s work in public education, research and surveillance, and its legal reform agenda so child sex offenders and people who profited from child sex could be prosecuted in Australia for crimes committed overseas.
Most of the patrons in the Kitten Club were what Karen would call ‘situational child sex offenders’. Not the type who would try this at home. Mark guessed most were blue-collar workers who’d chosen Thailand as a budget holiday destination. These guys were shit-kickers in the real world, but they’d get to Thailand and suddenly feel like kings. Every whim could be catered for, every desire met, at a price they could afford. Places such as Kelly’s club gave them the impression it was OK to fuck young girls if they wanted. The rules were different in Thailand. It was a ‘cultural’ thing. Some even believed they were doing good by putting money into a poor country.
Mark hated them for their ignorance, but he hated Kelly more. According to AFP files, Kelly didn’t screw children himself. His own tastes tended towards thirty-something Thai women. But he traded on other people’s weakness. With the rural poor being the supply, and the ignorant, insecure and downright deviant creating the demand, Kelly was the worst sort of entrepreneur.
But Mark reserved special loathing for the Thai police. They weren’t just letting it happen, they were turning a profit in protection money and in protecting a scumbag like Kelly instead of the children—their own people.
So the AFP had mounted its own operation to get Kelly. The ZTCP people in Chiang Mai had collected more than enough evidence to bring a case against him. But as Ted Baxter told Mark during his briefing in Bangkok, they had nowhere to take it.
‘To prosecute Kelly under Thai law, ZTCP would have to rely on the same cops who are protecting him. And they’re not likely to bite the hand that feeds them, are they?’
Despite thinning hair and ill-fitting false teeth, the AFP’s Overseas Liaison Officer had a fierceness that commanded respect.
‘The good news for us is that Kelly has a company registered in Australia,’ Baxter continued, ‘which means we can get him on procurement and profiting, though it’s gonna have to be handled delicately…’ He shuffled through the papers on his desk. ‘I’ve got a copy of the speech the minister gave recently in which he assures his Thai counterpart—and I quote—“the new Australian legislation on Child Sex Tourism is designed to act primarily as a deterrent, and the Australian government has no intention of usurping the Thai government’s role in policing child sex offenders.”
‘We can’t afford the diplomatic fall-out of a high-profile operation,’ he said, waving the document in the air, ‘but we’ve got to stop this arsehole. You’re gonna have to do this as quickly and quietly as possible. When you get to Chiang Mai, all you need to do is confirm ZTCP’s story and bring Kelly in.’
But Mark had been given the authority to call the shots and, though it meant a slight delay in moving against Kelly, he had a bigger and better plan.
Kelly would be up on indictable offences—his assets up for grabs once they brought in the charges against him— and this would cut off the Thai cops’ source of income. But that wasn’t enough. Mark wanted a positive ID on the officers involved and a shot of them accepting a pay-off. Then he’d go for broke.
His plan was to leak the photo to the Thai press with a note attributing it to ‘an Australian source’, which should protect the local ZTCP staff. The story was bound to make a big splash, paedophilia being such a hot topic, and he figured that with irrefutable evidence and enough pressure both at home and abroad, the Thai authorities would have no choice
but to take punitive action against the cops.
So far he’d kept the plan to himself. For all Baxter’s posturing, he wouldn’t have got where he was without being careful and, in Mark’s opinion, it was time someone rocked the boat.
Simone Whitfield seemed the sort of person who’d understand that. Anyone who’d break into a house under police guard and stake out a child sex brothel wasn’t afraid of making waves. She had guts, but she didn’t have a case. Mark took pains to explain this, anxious that in her drive to make a case, she didn’t jeopardise his own.
‘Look, I believe you, Simone,’ he said when she finished her story. ‘But what have you got? A possible motive, maybe, since Kelly’s capable of having an innocent person whacked to cover his own arse—’
‘Two innocent people,’ she interrupted.
‘Yeah, but you’ve got nothing substantial on the cops and all you’ve got on Kelly is a possible sighting on the night by an unreliable witness.’ He held up his hand. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s how the courts would see it. Short of an eyewitness account of the murder by a reliable source or a full confession, I don’t see how you can make it stick.’
She stared out across the river. ‘You’re the second person today who’s tried to talk me out of it,’ she said. ‘At least you believe me.’
How could he not believe her? She was savvy, passionate—it felt like a lifetime since he’d been around such a woman. She’d blown away his first impressions of her by suggesting they talk over beers at a local pub and, without waiting for an answer, hailed a passing tuk-tuk with a loud whistle. On the way, she chatted with the driver in fluent Thai. And to top it all off, before he could even take out his wallet, she’d paid the fare.
Mark found them a table on the terrace and ordered drinks while she went to the bathroom. The pub had a surprisingly good house band and he was tapping his foot along to ‘Mustang Sally’ when Simone reappeared, without the crucifix but with crimson lipstick. She might have changed her clothes, too, as he noticed her cleavage for the first time. Then, lighting one cigarette after another and matching him beer for beer, she filled him in on the story that led to her stakeout at the Kitten Club.
Behind the Night Bazaar Page 13
