Behind the Night Bazaar

by Angela Savage

  ‘No, about other policemen. The wives, they say their husbands get money and…and favours from…from concubines.’

  The old-fashioned word made Komet stifle a smile. ‘Wife, you mustn’t trouble yourself with such stories. If I have any mia noi, it’s my job. And it’s because work is so busy right now that I suggested you go to your mother’s place.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s all?’ she said timidly.

  ‘I promise.’

  She patted her eyes with her skirt and nudged him affectionately. ‘Come on, eat before it gets cold!’

  Komet smiled, but his heart was heavy. Arunee had far more to fear from the implications of his work than from him taking a mistress.

  ‘Actually, I was thinking of going to Mae’s place soon,’ she said between mouthfuls. ‘Wiangwilai’s cousin is driving to Nakhon Phanom tomorrow and I could get a lift with him. I’ll write and tell you when you should come—when the baby’s coming.’

  The sudden prospect of her leaving filled Komet with dread.

  ‘OK.’ He forced himself to return her smile.

  ‘And you still don’t mind if it’s a boy or a girl?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  This time his smile was genuine.

  Jayne crept back to her room, relieved to have kept her key. Though the staff wouldn’t be shocked to learn that a female farang guest had spent the night elsewhere, she didn’t want to make a bad impression. She messed up the bed to make it look slept in, put her clothes in the laundry basket and ran a bath.

  The hot water was soothing, though she welcomed the novelty of the mild aches in her body. She had assumed Mark, like most transient expats, would prefer the ‘local fare’ and couldn’t believe her luck. After a year’s drought, to have great sex like that twice in less than twelve hours—

  But she was forgetting Didier and what had happened between them only a few days earlier. She felt guilty—as if she’d been unfaithful to him by sleeping with Mark.

  Prior to Friday night, it had been a long time since anyone had held her and kissed her at all. Didier knew it, too—she’d confided in him about all her lousy love affairs. She’d even told him about Anthony, her fiancé who ended up marrying the woman he was having an affair with. Though Jayne had suspected him of cheating, Anthony denied it, refusing to give her a reason to break off their engagement on the grounds it would ‘destroy’ his mother. In the end, Jayne fled to Paris with her share of the house deposit they’d saved. And just so Anthony’s mother wouldn’t miss her, she scandalously left with a Frenchman she’d met at the high school where they both taught.

  ‘Touché!’ Didier had clapped in response to the story. ‘And what happened to the Frenchman?’

  ‘Turned out Étienne wasn’t over his previous girlfriend,’ she said, ‘but there were no hard feelings; he got me out of Melbourne.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Didier said. ‘Why didn’t you just leave this Anthony?’

  ‘I was in love with him,’ Jayne said. ‘And he was very manipulative. He made me feel like I was being paranoid when I knew he was screwing around.’

  ‘So how long before you learned to trust your instincts again?’

  ‘What is this, Didi?’ she frowned. ‘The third degree?’

  ‘I’m curious,’ he said. ‘You’ve ended up in a job where you have to rely on your instincts, and you spend a lot of time spying on unfaithful lovers. Don’t you think there’s a connection?’

  ‘What are you implying?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing,’ he shrugged. ‘I just can’t figure out how a good detective can make such bad choices when it comes to love.’

  Jayne hadn’t wanted to admit it, but Didier was right. She steered away from relationships and put her energy into friendships instead. But expatriate friends came and went, and her Thai friends’ family responsibilities prevented them from socialising as freely as she did. So Jayne came to depend on Didier. He’d seemed a safe bet.

  But even in that she’d been mistaken. What the hell had Didier been thinking? Of all people, he knew how vulnerable she was. Had he taken advantage of her? Or was there something else going on? She didn’t know. She’d never know now that he was dead.

  Jayne got out of the tepid bath, wrapped herself in a towel, and stared in the bathroom mirror, asking herself how much her lust for Mark had to do with her unresolved night with Didier. Her eyes were bloodshot from having slept in her contact lenses, the skin around her mouth was blotchy with whisker rash, and the blond hair made her look washed out. She wondered what on earth Mark saw in her. Perhaps he was just sleeping with her to keep her on side and prevent her from interfering in his investigation.

  But then she remembered about how he’d held her in his arms that morning after they’d had sex on the floor of the hotel room, how he kissed her and murmured, ‘You turn me on.’ She thought of the confidence with which he made love, the pleasure he took in her body. While she wasn’t sure about Mark’s motives, she didn’t doubt his desire was real. And it was mutual.

  But she needed to maintain her distance—for Didier’s sake. Getting dressed, she told herself it wasn’t personal. Even if Mark’s offer to kill two birds with one stone was genuine, working in Thailand had taught Jayne always to have a fall-back position.

  She wanted to show Nalissa the photo she’d taken of Doug Kelly to confirm if he was the man she saw with Nou on the night he was killed. While it might not stand up in court, it was worth something to her.

  She handed in her key to Ornsri, the receptionist.

  ‘Norn lap, mai?’ she asked.

  Jayne started but the question seemed like an innocent one. ‘Yes, I slept very well, thank you,’ she said in Thai.

  The clouds were swollen and bloated, the air sluggish, as if the atmosphere itself had PMT. ‘Pre-Monsoon Tension.’ Jayne had concocted the phrase, even before learning that the colloquial Thai for menstruation—pen reudoo—means ‘to be in season’. She made a mental note to buy an umbrella.

  Mark was conscious of the swagger in his step as he made his way to the ZTCP office. He felt better than he had in ages. Meeting Simone had lifted a weight from his shoulders. They’d agreed to meet for dinner that evening and it would be like going on a date back home.

  It wasn’t just the sex. If that was all it took, he could have got that easily enough. But Mark wasn’t interested in getting into bed with the locals.

  Truth was he could never be sure in this part of the world that when a woman came on to him, it wasn’t for his money. Other guys didn’t seem to have a problem with that. An embassy colleague—a fat, old, ugly bastard called Whitehead who wouldn’t stand a chance of scoring back home—told Mark with a straight face that the nubile, Cambodian woman on his arm was crazy about him. They were drinking at the Foreign Correspondents Club at the time, a French colonial building overlooking the Tonlé Sap river, where the walls crawled with geckoes feasting on insects attracted to the lights. The young woman—half the guy’s age and stunning—sat between them at the bar, sipping a bottle of green lemonade through a straw.

  ‘Is that true?’ Mark asked her. ‘You really like this guy?’

  The woman giggled.

  ‘Ah, Touk doesn’t speak much English, do you sweetie?’ Whitehead said, patting her thigh.

  ‘I didn’t realise you spoke Cambodian,’ Mark ventured.

  ‘I don’t,’ he said, signalling for another beer. ‘Not a bloody word of it!’

  Cambodia had been full of guys like Whitehead, anxious to believe that what made them attractive to local women had nothing to do with money and the prospect of a visa out of there.

  And paying for sex was out of the question. Although prostitution was illegal—not that you’d know it in Phnom Penh or Chiang Mai—it was pride that stopped him. No matter what the experts said, Mark reckoned you had to be desperate to pay for it. And he wasn’t that kind of man.

  Still, despite his attraction to Simone, Mark had a job to do. He needed Baxter’s source
at ZTCP to verify her ID on the cops. He had no reason to believe Simone would lie to him, but her grief over her friend’s death might have clouded her judgment. If not, there was no harm done. It would simply give him one thing less to do in between getting a photo of Friday’s pay-off, and arresting Kelly the following morning.

  Mark knew the action at the Kitten Club wound down around two, the place all but empty by three. Kelly had an apartment upstairs, which he shared with his Thai girlfriend. Security was minimal—a concertina-style metal gate dragged across the entrance and fastened with a padlock— but Kelly didn’t bother employing a night guard. With half the Chiang Mai police force on his payroll, he figured he had the best security money could buy. This made it easier for Mark to move against him without involving anyone from Bangkok. He’d call Baxter for approval after seeing the ZTCP people, but was confident of getting the official OK.

  The sound of distant thunder caused him to glance up. He hoped the rain would hold off until early Saturday morning. It wouldn’t hurt to have the extra cover.

  Among the strip of guesthouses inside the old city walls, there were more signs in farang languages than in Thai. Nestled between a ‘Bier Garten’ and a travel agency, Komet found the next place on his list. Leaving his shoes at the door, he introduced himself to the receptionist and pointed to one of the names on his list.

  ‘Farang kon nee put Thai dai, mai?’ he said.

  The woman peered at the piece of paper. ‘Why on earth would that foreigner speak Thai? She’s one of those dirty backpackers.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, she says “hello” and “thank you” and wais everybody, even the cleaning ladies,’ the woman laughed. ‘But can she speak Thai? No.’

  She handed back the paper and glanced towards the door. ‘Look, she’s coming now.’

  Komet raised his eyebrows as a young, ginger-haired woman entered the foyer. She wore the baggy pants typical of Isaan farmers, but instead of the normal blue colour, hers were bright orange, with grass stains on the knees. There were safety pins on her blouse where buttons should have been, and her hair was matted together with strings of beads. Her bare feet left a dusty trail on the white-tiled floor of the lobby.

  ‘Sawadee ka,’ the receptionist beamed as the farang approached the desk.

  ‘Sawadee ka,’ the girl said, her hands together in a wai.

  ‘Just how long is it since you’ve washed your clothes?’ the receptionist asked in Thai.

  ‘Sorry?’ the farang said.

  ‘Look at you, you’re filthy!’ she said, still smiling sweetly.

  The farang smiled and gestured to the board on which the room keys were hung.

  ‘See what I mean,’ the receptionist said.

  Komet crossed the name off his list. This was all taking a lot longer than he’d anticipated. He was only halfway through his list, and although his shift didn’t start for a few hours, he wanted to spend some time with Arunee before she left the next day. He would have to invent a lead on the boys he’d seen outside Khun Di’s house. It wasn’t as if Ratratarn could send anyone else to follow it up.

  Outside, he slipped his notebook into his shirt pocket and kicked his motorbike into life.

  Nalissa looked around the empty lounge of The Nice Place before sliding into the booth beside Jayne. She was wearing her work clothes—pink bikini and ridiculous rabbit ears— but hadn’t finished applying her make-up; her one painted eye made her face look lopsided.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Jayne said. ‘I only need a moment.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ the Thai woman said, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ Jayne said.

  ‘Not really. It’s just, you know, it looks strange, the two of us here like this…’

  Jayne leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Has anyone spoken to you about what happened last weekend?’

  Nalissa’s eyes widened. ‘No! Why would anyone—?’

  ‘Mai pen rai,’ Jayne said quickly, sitting back again. ‘I’ll keep this brief. But could you look at this—’ she took out her photo of Doug Kelly ‘—and tell me if this is the man you saw with Khun Sanga last Friday in Loh Kroh.’ She handed Nalissa the photograph.

  ‘Yes,’ she responded firmly. ‘That’s the man who was with Khun Sanga.’

  ‘You’re absolutely certain?’

  Nalissa looked up sharply. ‘What? You think I’m only saying it to please you, like a polite Thai girl?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean to imply—’

  ‘I recognise him and the building, too. That’s the Kitten Club. That’s where I saw them.’

  Jayne smiled to herself. ‘And will you sign a piece of paper to confirm it?’

  ‘What?’ Nalissa held one hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, no, Khun Jayne, I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, I just couldn’t.’

  ‘But I need written confirmation,’ Jayne said, struggling to keep her voice down. ‘Otherwise, this man gets away with murder.’

  ‘And what if he finds out about it?’ Nalissa said. ‘Then he’d know my name. And I could end up dead, like poor Khun Sanga.’

  Jayne kicked herself. She should never have suggested someone else might want to speak to Nalissa about Nou’s death. Now she’d spooked the woman.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I can guarantee nothing will happen to you and—’

  The look of misery on Nalissa’s face stopped her. Jayne’s promises sounded hollow, even to herself. She couldn’t guarantee Nalissa’s safety and the Thai woman knew it.

  ‘Mai pen rai,’ she said softly. ‘It’s OK. I’m sorry. I really appreciate what you’ve done for me.’

  Nalissa nodded and stood up to leave.

  ‘Is there anything I can do,’ Jayne said, ‘to thank you for your time?’

  ‘Buy me a drink!’ Nalissa said, tension dissolving in a broad grin. ‘There’s a bonus for the girl who brings in the first paying customer of the night.’

  Komet reached the Mai Pai guesthouse around 11pm and parked his motorbike beneath a banana palm in the driveway. The reception area looked deserted but then he saw the bluish glow of a television screen and a woman sprawled on a pile of cushions. She looked more curious than startled when he tapped on the glass, and rose slowly to her feet, tightening the cotton pah sin around her waist and smoothing down her hair.

  ‘Excuse me, older sister,’ Komet said, removing his cap, ‘I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.’

  ‘Of course, Officer,’ the woman smiled, ushering him in. ‘But I’m hardly your older sister. Younger sister will do. Call me Nong Ornsri.’

  Komet nodded politely. With her crow’s feet and traces of grey in her hair, Ornsri definitely had a few years on him.

  ‘Fine, Nong,’ he said, taking out his notes. ‘I called your guesthouse last night and spoke with your husband—’

  ‘No,’ she interrupted him, ‘I’m not married any more. My husband was a lousy drunk, Officer. I got rid of him. You must’ve talked with my son. He’s out tonight.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said neutrally. ‘Well then, old—, I mean, younger sister, I was asking about farang women who’d checked in on Tuesday afternoon or evening and was given two names.’ He held out a piece of paper.

  ‘Ai Leen Run Den,’ Ornsri transliterated aloud, ‘See Mon Wid Feed.’ Gesturing for Komet to follow, she took the registry, tilted it towards the light from the TV, and scanned the list of names.

  ‘Yes, Officer, both those women are staying here.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about them?’

  ‘Khun Aileen, she’s American and Khun Simone, she’s from England,’ she said, reading from the ledger.

  She looked up and narrowed her eyes. ‘Why? Are these women in trouble with the police? Because, you know, Officer…?’

  ‘Komet,’ he said.

  ‘Officer Komet, I run a very respectable business here. I tell my guests, no drugs, no girls. And i
f there’s any idea that these women—’

  ‘No, no,’ Komet reassured her. ‘It’s nothing like that. I just need to talk with them.’

  The smile returned. ‘Mai pen rai,’ she said, squinting at the pigeonholes on the wall where the room keys were kept. ‘Khun Aileen is in. She came back hours ago. Chances are she’s already asleep. Do you want me to wake her?’

  ‘Ah, that may not be necessary,’ Komet said. ‘Tell me, Nong Ornsri, does Khun Aileen speak Thai?’

  The woman frowned. ‘No.’

  ‘What about Khun Simone?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she speaks Thai very well,’ Ornsri said. ‘Krung Thep accent, but otherwise very good.’

  Komet inhaled sharply. A Bangkok accent was a good sign. ‘I know it’s late, but would it be possible for me to speak with her?’

  Ornsri glanced over her shoulder again. ‘She’s not in, Officer Komet.’ She leaned forward and nudged him. ‘She didn’t come in at all last night.’

  ‘Oh? Well, when did you last see her?’

  ‘It was around seven. She said she was going out for dinner.’

  Komet looked at his watch; she’d been gone four hours.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to wait here for her?’ Ornsri added, glancing at the pile of cushions on the floor. ‘You can sit with me and watch television. And I have some lao Kwang Thong…’

  Komet suddenly became aware of how it looked, the two of them in the dimly lit reception area, the woman offering him rice whisky.

  ‘Ah, younger sister, thank you for your kind offer,’ he said carefully, ‘but I can’t drink on duty. And since the farang didn’t come back at all last night…Well, I have other police business. It’d be best if I try again tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Up to you,’ the woman shrugged.

  ‘Yes, that would be best,’ Komet said again, restoring his cap to his head. ‘I’m grateful for your help.’ He hesitated. ‘Younger sister, could I ask you not to mention this visit to Khun Simone? I wouldn’t want to make her… nervous about seeing me.’

  ‘Mai pen rai,’ Ornsri nodded with a tight-lipped smile.

  Komet breathed a sigh of relief as he got back on his motorbike. He wasn’t used to divorcées—such women had a reputation for being forceful, even aggressive. Komet guessed they had to be tough to live with the knowledge they’d failed at a Thai woman’s most important task: keeping a marriage together.