Things sounded promising but he still had ten places left to visit, and he needed to think up an excuse to explain how he’d spent the night searching for Bom and Deh, only to return to the office empty-handed.
Mark watched as Simone exhaled the smoke from her cigarette.
‘One of my English students offered to pay me to check out this Australian guy who wanted to marry her,’ she said, ‘and I tailed the guy to a bar in Patpong and caught him on film fondling a topless waitress.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Word got around and more and more people came to me for help. The work paid better than teaching, but it was the thrill that got me hooked.’ She smiled and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘And that’s how I ended up working as a private investigator.’
‘Mild-mannered Melbourne school teacher hits Bangkok and turns into Australia’s Mata Hari!’ Mark said with a grin.
‘Oh, hardly.’ She pulled a face. ‘The work’s mostly research and surveillance, pretty mundane stuff. More Miss Marple than Mata Hari.’
‘Who?’
‘Miss Marple. You know, as in Agatha Christie novels?’
‘Ah, I don’t read much,’ Mark said.
‘Oh?’ She seemed disappointed. ‘Anyway, it’s your turn. How did you end up working in southeast Asia?’
‘Where do you want me to start?’ Mark held up their empty bottles and gestured for a waiter to bring another round.
She rested her chin on her hands and fixed her green eyes on him. ‘Why did you become a cop?’
Mark shrugged. ‘Like you, sometimes you fall into something and discover you’re good at it.’
‘When did you join up?’ she asked.
‘Ah…I was nineteen, so it was the end of 1985.’
‘So you’re thirty now?’
‘Almost. My birthday’s in November. Why? How old are you?’
‘Same. Twenty-nine,’ she said as the waiter set down the fresh drinks.
‘Back in those days, you didn’t get a lot of wogs on the force in Queensland,’ Mark said. ‘So I ended up doing a lot of “cross-cultural liaison”. Some of the more…er…traditional men couldn’t get their heads around the idea that beating your wife and kids was illegal in Australia.’
‘Was that what your father was like?’ she said gravely.
‘God, no,’ he laughed. ‘My dad wouldn’t hurt a fly! When I went to Italy, I couldn’t believe his brothers. They’re these wiry, tough bastards who live in the mountains, carry bloody great daggers in their belts and slaughter their own goats! It wouldn’t surprise me if Dad came to Australia ’cause he wasn’t tough enough for Calabria.’
‘So your work was in domestic violence?’ Simone said.
‘For a while. Then I got transferred to a special squad set up to investigate child sex abuse. That’s how I ended up in the Feds—my boss recommended me for a transfer to the paedophile unit at AFP.’
Simone looked poised to ask another question, but he held up his hand. ‘Time out,’ he said.
He left her lighting another cigarette and wandered from the terrace through to the men’s room. Mark knew swapping life stories was part of the deal when getting to know a person. But his time with the special squad was best kept to himself.
Most sexual crimes against children were committed by extended family members or people known to them. But some victims—or ‘survivors’, as they preferred to be called—alleged they’d been lured by high-profile members of the community into private clubs for paedophiles. And while Mark made initial headway in pursuing these cases, witnesses would suddenly decide not to press charges, key documents would go missing, and obscure legal obstacles would emerge. Mark began to suspect an unholy alliance of church, state, big business and the law to protect wealthy perpetrators from prosecution. But he knew better than to share these thoughts and jumped when the opportunity to join the Feds came up.
But he didn’t want to go over all that with Simone. He zipped up his fly and flushed the urinal. It only made him feel anxious about his current case to mull over unfinished business.
Jayne watched Mark walk away, unsure of what to think. Were they beginning a relationship, or just keeping each other on side for the sake of their respective investigations? Mark’s mention of Calabria made her think of the Mafia saying, Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight.
Two young Ahka girls approached her table, their beanie-like hats covered in silver coins. The taller girl, about seven, carried cheap souvenirs on a tray suspended from a sash around her neck. The other held a bronze-coloured insect in her hand, fastened by one leg to her ring finger with a piece of red cotton, a tiny leash.
When Jayne spoke Thai, they became excited, asking her to teach them English words and giggling at the strange sounds coming from their own mouths. She was still chatting with them when Mark reappeared.
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose you know the English word for this, do you?’
He looked into the girl’s outstretched palm and shrugged. ‘Nah, sorry.’ He resumed his seat.
‘Neither do I,’ she laughed.
When she told the girls this, they grinned, the younger one cupping her hand over her mouth to hide her smile. Then they scampered off, leaving Jayne to stare after them.
‘Do you want to move on?’ Mark said, bringing her thoughts back to him.
She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s nearly midnight. You don’t think we should be watching Kelly’s place?’
‘Nah. Since you saved me the effort of getting an ID on those cops, I can take a night off.’
She thought for a moment. ‘How about we go to a show?’
‘What kind of show?’
‘It’s a surprise.’ She signalled for the bill.
Officer Tanin blinked, bug-eyes widening. There was no mistaking it. Officer Komet was sitting in the garden of the Mountain View Lodge with a farang woman.
Tanin ducked behind the trunk of a coconut palm. Although he was too far away to hear what the two were saying, he figured they must be speaking Thai as, to his knowledge, Komet didn’t know any other languages.
The woman had fair hair and pale skin, and there was a lot of skin showing. Her dress had little strings over her shoulders, and when she leaned forward, Tanin could almost see her breasts. She shook her head a lot and waved her hands in the air when she talked.
The Mountain View was on Tanin’s regular beat. The garden restaurant had a winding path across the lawn that led to the tables, each lit with candles inside domes of coloured glass. The path itself was lined with flowers, neatly trimmed to waist-height; and there was a pond in the middle, covered in pink lotus blossoms. It was quiet and romantic, a place where lovers met.
Tanin was confused. Was it possible Officer Komet had taken a mia noy? He knew Komet’s wife was expecting a baby. But he didn’t think farangs could be minor wives. It was very strange.
He wondered what Sergeant Pornsak would make of it. Word around the office was that he’d fallen out with Ratratarn, forced to do guard duty at the dead farang’s house. Tanin hoped it wasn’t serious: Pornsak had promised to look after him, and Tanin needed his help if he was to advance his career. He was trying to save enough money to get married.
Although Tanin looked up to Pornsak, the sergeant was always making scornful remarks about ban nok people and, like Komet, Tanin had grown up in a rural area. He tried to imagine the look on Pornsak’s face if he knew that Komet—whom he dismissed as a hick—had a farang girlfriend. Pornsak was bound to be jealous.
Smiling at the thought, Tanin withdrew from behind the tree and backed away to his motorbike. He was tempted to drop in on Pornsak there and then, but it would keep until the end of their respective shifts. It gave him something to look forward to.
Mark cast a sideways glance at Simone who laughed as a drag queen dressed as Grace Jones took centre stage to sing ‘I Need a Man’. A waiter wearing silver micro-shorts and the number 21 around his neck approached the
ir table and, careful not to take his eyes off the guy’s face, Mark ordered himself another scotch.
When the tuk-tuk had pulled up outside an ornate wooden house called the Lotus Inn, Mark assumed Simone was taking him to see some traditional Thai dancing. By the time he realised it was a gay bar, it was too late to suggest they go elsewhere without causing a scene. It wasn’t that he had a problem with gays. But he didn’t like having it shoved in his face.
The drag queen strutted around the stage, gyrating his pelvis and making lewd gestures with his tongue on the microphone. Half the time, Mark couldn’t tell if these tran nies were men or women. Some of their tits looked real, and one or two wore dresses so tight he could see every curve— and there were no bulges where their dicks should have been. Did they strap them up into the cracks of their arses? Or worse?
Mark downed his second scotch in one gulp and ordered another. The drag queen stepped down from the stage and started making his way through the audience. Still lip-synching, he stopped next to one guy, stroked the stubble on his shaved head and perched on his lap, his free hand working its way down towards the man’s groin. The punter looked as if he was enjoying himself, but Mark didn’t want to risk being the next victim. Mumbling an excuse to Simone, he made his way to the bathroom.
It was a bad idea. Stumbling through the washroom into the toilet area, Mark came upon two men in a corner by the urinal, shirts unbuttoned and hands down each other’s pants. The men—one a westerner, the other a local—didn’t even pause to look up as he brushed past them and locked himself in a cubicle.
Even with the music booming in the bar, he could still hear the two guys going at it through the door. Mark put the toilet seat down and sat back with his head against the wall, waiting for them to finish so he could return to Simone and suggest they get the hell out of there.
The two guys’ groans grew deeper, louder, more intense. Mark sighed, wondering just how long it could take for a couple of poofs to jerk each other off, when he looked down and realised he had a hard-on.
He stared at his distended groin in shock and his head started to spin. He tried to will his cock to go down, to block out the sounds of the two men gasping towards climax. But his erection only grew harder, straining against the fly of his jeans, as the voices outside rose to a howl of satisfaction.
Mark slumped forward, listening to the men kiss loudly and laugh. He heard footsteps, the sound of running water, paper towels being pulled from the dispenser and muffled voices. Finally, he heard the bathroom door being opened. The music grew louder for a moment. Then he was alone.
He eased himself up and adjusted his jeans. Since his obstinate cock remained hard, he untucked his shirt and let it hang out over his belt. Unlocking the door, he walked to the wash basin and splashed cold water on his face. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him: shock, guilt, anger and lust.
He hesitated before helping himself to a paper towel, rubbing his face slowly at first, then harder and faster until the towel disintegrated in his hands. Scrunching the scraps into a ball, he flung it against the wall and shoved the door open, almost knocking out two men on the verge of entering. Another foreign poofter with his Thai fuck, Mark thought, angrily pushing past them. These guys had no fuckin’ shame!
He paused at the exit and looked across the room to where Simone was sitting, hoping to catch her eye and signal for them to go.
‘Fuck!’ he said aloud.
She wasn’t alone.
Jayne glanced at the glass of whisky in front of Mark’s empty place at the table. He was missing the big finale when Whitney Houston, Tina Turner, Marilyn Monroe and Chiang Mai’s petite Grace Jones joined together in a heartfelt rendition of ‘When Will I See You Again?’, a favourite in Thailand’s gay bars. Then again, Mark didn’t seem that comfortable with her choice of venue.
The Lotus Inn was one of the few places Didier would go to for fun. The clientele were well-heeled westerners and wealthy Asians, and the place got rave reviews in the Spartacus guide. The boys who worked as waiters and dancers could be bought for the night, of course, but the general ambience was more playful than sleazy.
The quality of the show was what had appealed to Didier. The sound, light and sets were dazzling; and the performers put enormous effort into their costumes and lip-synched so convincingly, you could almost believe they were really singing.
Jayne joined the applause as the performers took a bow then stepped down from the stage to mingle with the audience. With no sign of Mark, she helped herself to his scotch and searched for a cigarette.
‘You want a boyfriend, Ma’am?’
She looked up at a short, muscular young man with the number 5 around his neck, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m here with my—’ she hesitated. What was Mark to her? She decided to keep it simple. ‘I’m here with my friend,’ she said.
‘Pai len duay kan sarm kon dai,’ he said without missing a beat.
Jayne smiled, suspecting Federal Agent Mark d’Angelo wouldn’t enjoy the threesome the boy had on offer.
‘Thank you,’ she said politely to save face, ‘but we’re very tired.’
As the young man departed with a wai, his place was taken by the Lotus’s Marilyn Monroe.
‘Sawadee ka,’ she said. ‘May I sit down for a moment?’
An approach by the boys was one thing, but in Jayne’s experience the kratoeys weren’t into women. Curious, she nodded for her to take a seat.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ Marilyn said in her falsetto voice. ‘You’re a friend of Khun Di, aren’t you?’
Jayne glanced around the room, suddenly nervous.
‘Y-yes,’ she said, leaning close enough to smell Marilyn’s floral perfume. ‘Why do you ask?’
Marilyn picked up the drinks menu from the table and used it to fan her face. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I was at the bar when they found Khun Sanga’s body.’
‘Really?’ Jayne whispered.
‘Yes, it was just terrible!’ She fanned faster. ‘Oh, what they’d done to that beautiful boy! And the policeman, he made me…oh!’ She raised the back of her hand to her forehead in a gesture worthy of her famous namesake.
‘What policeman?’ Jayne said, trying to remain calm. ‘What did he make you do?’
‘He made me look at the body!’
Tears sprung to Marilyn’s eyes as the menu dropped to the table.
‘That must have been awful,’ Jayne said, rummaging through her purse for a clean tissue and handing it to Marilyn.
‘What’s worse,’ she sniffed, ‘the policemen, they made me sign a piece of paper saying I knew about Khun Sanga and Khun Di.’
‘Knew what about Sanga and Didier?’
‘That they were faen kan,’ she said, the pitch of her voice rising. ‘And now Khun Di is dead. And it’s all my fault!’ She hid her face in her hands and sobbed.
‘Khun…Marilyn,’ Jayne said, ‘I’m sorry but I don’t understand. You told the police that they were lovers. But you didn’t tell them that Khun Di killed Khun Sanga, did you?’
‘Oh, no!’ She raised her head. ‘But I didn’t tell them they were lovers, either. The police already knew about Khun Di, but they wanted me to sign the paper, as if it was me who told them. And not only me. Other people, too. I wanted you to know that Khun Di was a good man and none of us would ever do anything to…to…’ Her voice trailed off again.
‘It’s OK,’ Jayne said, patting her arm.
Marilyn dabbed her eyes with the tissue. ‘Since you were his friend, you should know the truth.’
Jayne cast her mind back over what she’d read in the police report. ‘If you don’t mind, Khun Marilyn, can I ask about your…ah…the name that appeared on your police statement?’
‘Pairoj,’ she sniffed. ‘Pairoj Nilmongkol.’
Jayne took a pen from her purse and scribbled the name on the back of a coaster. ‘And the man who forced you to sign it?’
&nb
sp; ‘Police Lieutenant Colonel Ratratarn.’
Jayne put the coaster in her purse and slipped some money for the drinks under the table marker, standing up as Mark reappeared.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked. ‘You missed the best part of the show and—’
He smothered the rest of her words in a kiss so hard it almost bruised her lips. Thrown off-balance, she leaned into his body to steady herself and felt his erection beneath his jeans.
‘I want to fuck you so badly,’ he whispered.
For Jayne, such an overt display of heterosexual lust in a gay bar was almost indecent.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s go to my place.’
Jayne grabbed the phone before it could ring a second time. Ornsri at reception said a Thai man wanted to meet her. She peered at the clock. Half past seven. Mark was snoring lightly beside her. She asked the man’s name. There was the sound of muffled voices, before Ornsri whispered back.
‘He says he’s a friend of Khun Bom and Khun Deh.’
‘Just a minute.’ Jayne gently replaced the receiver and eased herself out of bed. She gathered her clothes from the floor and crept into the bathroom to get dressed.
Fighting the desire for a hot shower, she splashed her face, ran damp fingers through her hair, and put up the collar of her blouse to hide a bite mark on the side of her neck. She tiptoed back past the bed and picked up her day-pack and sandals. Mark stirred as she turned the door handle and she froze until she was sure he was still sleeping.
The man in the reception area looked familiar. His large eyes turned down slightly at the corners, giving him a sad expression despite the smile on his face. Ornsri nodded as Jayne entered and he leapt up to greet her with a wai. His clothes, though neat, were old, his grey slacks faded at the knees.
‘Kor thort krup, Khun Simone,’ he said, speaking Thai with a northeastern accent. ‘My name is Komet. Sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if we might talk together in private for a moment.’
Behind the Night Bazaar Page 16
