Number Twelve

by Colin Cotterill

  “They discuss social network stuff in the lunch break?” I said.

  “In my day it was radio and newspaper,” he said. “Now you can not only see the news but you can be a part of it. It’s a lot of fun until you become the main suspect. But I was just an observer until the clothing lad approached me after lunch.”

  “He approached you?”

  “That’s right,” said the old man. “I was working and he came up to me and pulled me under the shade of a car port. He told me he’d found the bag everyone was talking about. The clothing people were temporarily renting a shophouse on the far side of the car park, and he was walking to work when he saw the cart and the bag in it. He said he’d planned to hand it in to the Tesco guard but he got busy with his work and forgot about it. He said he was reminded when he heard shoppers talking about it. He said he was worried because there was no money in it, and he was afraid they’d accuse him of stealing whatever was in there.”

  “So, what did he want?” I asked.

  “He wanted me to say that I found it and handed it to him.”

  “And what would you stand to gain if you did that?”

  “I tend to trust people, you know? It’s my fault. I thought I was doing him a favour. It was only later that I started to think about all the possibilities. He said the owner might be offering a reward, and I guess that thought was at the front of my mind.”

  “That doesn’t sound very bright of you. Of course everyone would suspect you of stealing it.”

  “What can I say? I collect carts in thirty-degree heat outside a supermarket for a living.”

  Right. You don’t need a university degree for rounding up carts. But there was still something that bothered me.

  “But why would he need to involve you at all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why didn’t he just take the money and throw the bag in a bin somewhere?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Little Sister.”

  But I had a theory. Ever since I’d become a social network star, I couldn’t shake off the feeling I was being watched. It was like I was in the Truman Show. It was irrational but I looked around and saw everyone on their cellphones and imagined they were doing research on me. Was that woman taking a selfie or was she filming me? Was the postman smiling at me because he was friendly or because everyone at the post office had been watching footage of my last date? I wondered if the clothing guy had picked up the bag that morning, taken out the money, and planned to dump the evidence when he got home. But over the course of the day he’d heard the Tesco staff and customers and other salesmen talking about the big heist. And there he was, wallowing in the same doubts as me. Had anyone seen him recover the bag? Was he a suspect? Would they catch him attempting to throw away the evidence? And because of that indecision, he’d decided to change the story and rope in a plan B. And who better as a fall guy than a poor cart collector? And if the old man didn’t have a conscience and I wasn’t a crime reporter, the thief would have got away with it. But, as I say, I don’t like people lying to me.

  I gave the old fellow his reward anyway for being honest, even though I had to wrestle him before he’d accept it. I asked for his granddaughter’s phone number, and he handed it over without any questions. It was written on a piece of paper in his shirt pocket. I fondly remembered those days of pens and ink and notes written here and there you could never find. I called my darling Chomphu, Pak Nam’s only openly gay police officer, and I told him the story. Of course, he already knew most of it. He wasn’t afraid of Net detectives. I got him up to date on the old man’s visit, and laid out my theories about the thought patterns meandering through the mind of the leather pants guy. If it had been my cash, and if I had plenty of it, I might have taken the hit. I deserved to suffer. But it was Mair’s money, salaries for the teachers. And dishonesty deserves a knee in the groin.

  Chom couldn’t arrest Tip the clothing vendor because Lang Suan was outside his jurisdiction and we didn’t have any hard evidence. In fact we didn’t have any proof at all. But we had our theory and, as it turned out, we didn’t need to make anything official.

  We sat at Amazon the next day with our cappuccinos, celebrating the victory. Chom gave me a blow-by-blow account of what happened.

  “So I pretended to be shopping,” said Chom. “I was out of uniform but I’m sure they all recognized the fact that someone of my grace and poise wouldn’t be buying any rip-off Chinese dress-ups. I stood back and glared at your boy for a few minutes. He was uncomfortable, sweating like a pig, although I can’t recall ever seeing a pig sweat. Perhaps they sweat inwardly. Or perhaps I just don’t hang out with enough pigs to be–”

  “Chom!”

  “Sorry. So I walked over to him, gave him one of my unnerving smiles, and flipped open my police ID badge, although he didn’t bother to look at it. He knew why I was there. All I said was ‘CCTV’ and looked up at the roof of the car port, where there wasn’t one. He didn’t follow my gaze. There was a long silence during which I raised one eyebrow and he slowly shook his head. He reached into the back pocket of his icky leather trousers and pulled out a wallet.

  “‘How much do you want?’ he said.

  “‘Twenty thousand baht,’ I said.

  “‘Plus?’ he said.

  “‘Plus what?’

  “‘You know.’

  “‘Are you suggesting that rather than drag you into my police car, fill out endless, mindless forms, and lock you in a damp, badly decorated cell, I might be tempted by a small donation for the police retirement fund?’

  “‘Isn’t that what this is about?’ he said.

  “‘Not at all,’ I told him, and he handed me the twenty thousand, although there was a lot more to be had in that fat wallet of his.

  “‘That’s it?’ he said.

  “‘That and a warning.’

  “Don’t tell me,” I interrupted through my cappuccino moustache. “You said something about us being watched all the time. That the days of getting away with it are over. That crime no longer pays.”

  “Nothing so crass,” said Chom, nibbling on his wafer biscuit. “I told him that leather pants would never become a fashion statement in a tropical country. Chafing, you know?”

  *

  So, thanks to social snooping and personal intrusion, there was a happy ending for me and Mair, but I wanted to see how computer people-power worked from the inside. I called Sissy.

  “Twenty-seven thousand,” she said, even before I’d said hello.

  “What?”

  “Hits.”

  “On what?”

  “On you, you Internet dominatrix.”

  “There aren’t even that many people in Lang Suan?” I told her.

  “Twenty-seven thousand. Sixteen thousand of whom have logged in again and again to see the outcome. People need a good satisfying ending. You owe them that.”

  “All right. I’ll give it. Can you set me up an account in Lang Suan?”

  “It’s not that difficult.”

  “I have an analogue address book made of paper.”

  “Right. So what do you want to call yourself?”

  “I want to cash in on everyone knowing my name before it fizzles out and dies.”

  “So you want to be called...?”

  “Jimm Juree.”

  “Catchy. And what do you want to achieve with this sudden launch into Web society? So far, you haven’t even bothered to write anything on the Facebook page I set up for you. In fact, you haven’t even accessed it yourself.”

  “I’m ready to belong,” I said.

  “Liar.”

  “All right, call it an experiment. I want to see what the online community makes of an injustice. I want to see how much heat I can put under the pan. I want to see if people power really works. I have a hypothesis and I want to try it out. All right?”

  “You do realize you’re entering my world by doing this?”

  “I’ll take a visitor’s pass.”

&n
bsp; That night I contacted my tribe after learning the standard protocol from the cart man’s granddaughter, and having her befriend me. My first task was to thank everyone for their concerns about my lost handbag, and for their help in finding it. I included a personal and flirtatious thank you to the owner of the cream-coloured truck. He’d have no choice but to write back to me. And then, with no compunction whatsoever, I told a lie. I’d imagined that most members of the Lang Suan network would be following events from their office desks, and not surfing during family time. So I was astounded when the responses began to arrive. It wasn’t a trickle. Messages poured into my inbox like a monsoon storm. I couldn’t keep up with them. And my phone was clogged. Within ten minutes I had a backlog of calls waiting. I watched as the messages, initially directed towards me, were hijacked amid a flurry of comments and suggestions from and between the members of the pack. I went from being the cog to getting run over by the wheel. It was like being on a battlefield with bullets and mortars flying over my head. I’d pushed that cart at the top of the hill, and it was rolling out of control. All I could do was sit back and mix myself a metaphor or two.

  After three hours, with the clock approaching eleven PM, someone had set up a branch of the Lang Suan Web to deal specifically with the problem of dog murderers, and there were suggestions in place to punish offenders or at least to tweak their consciences. Despite the fact that every community had its dog assassins, not one person dared speak up in favour of using ya beau – an insecticide popular amongst dog slaughterers – to cull the stray canine population. Responders were ditching their anonymity and offering their services. A lawyer agreed to pursue cases against offenders. A senior monk offered his land to set up a shelter. An MP and dog lover promised to bring up the topic in parliament. And I got the feeling this support gave voice to people who had remained silent for fear of the dog killer’s access to influence and weapons. Reports started to get specific, and suddenly there was a post from “Rover”.

  “I’m tired of keeping quiet about this,” said Rover. “My beloved dog was shot by a policeman who lied about him going into his yard and trying to steal his chickens. The guy has no fence. His chickens run free range. They often wander into our yard. The cockerels keep us awake. My dog was just protecting us, and the cop came onto our land to shoot him. He told us he was within his rights, and threatened my family if we complained about it. But I’m not going to be intimidated anymore. The cop’s name is....”

  And the respondent went on not only to name the culprit but to give his rank and the name of the station he was based at. It was the lieutenant that the cadet had told me about. It was no coincidence. I’d told Sissy the details during our conversation. She’d set up a dummy account in the name of Rover. Another little lie perhaps, but who cares? It sparked a thread of shamings and more offers of help, and more group-power gatherings. It was remarkable to watch. And the network continues to operate to this day. As a result of pressure from the Web, the lieutenant was transferred to another province. Not exactly a satisfying result, but one that echoed throughout Lang Suan and, I hope, prompted every idiot with a gun and a can of poison to think twice before ending a life. As the senior monk reminded us:

  All living things fear being beaten with clubs.

  All living things fear being put to death.

  Putting oneself in the place of the other,

  Let no one kill nor cause another to kill.

  Dhammapada 129

  Jimm Juree’s Short Stories

  Number One: The Funeral Photographer

  In this story, Jimm, exiled from the north of Thailand and just about surviving in the south, finds a new career by accident. Being Jimm, a crime is never far away.

  Number Two: When You Wish Upon a Star

  A car drives into a river and a woman is dead. A terrible accident and a broken hearted husband. Or it would be if Jimm’s sixth sense didn’t cut in.

  Number Three: Highway Robbery

  "First, my only appointment of the week phoned to postpone. Second, on the TV news in the evening I was astounded to see scenes from our own Highway 41 where an armoured security van had been deserted minus its cash. And, third, I was awoken just before midnight by the sound of groaning coming from the empty shop house beside mine. It was a while before I learned how these three events were connected."

  Number Four: The Zero Finger Option

  A letter a day delivered by a good looking young postman leads Jimm into a new mystery. It starts as a case of internet scamming, but ends up somewhere far worse.

  Number Five: Trash

  Not a message in a bottle; instead it's in a sealed plastic bag which once held medicines, stuffed inside an old sardine can and washed up on the beach. A cry for help by someone held against their will? And is there any connection to the Burmese labourers dying from malaria? Another case for Jimm Juree.

  Number Six: Spay With Me

  "On the day I, Jimm Juree, sent one of my mother’s dogs to hell, someone robbed the Siam Commercial Bank in Pak Nam. The two events sound unrelated, but they weren’t. The connection between the two was me and one amazingly bad decision I made. This will all become evident as I talk you through the events of that Thursday."

  Number Seven: Sex on the Beach

  When a tourist is raped and killed at a resort in the south of Thailand, the police place the guilt on a Burmese migrant worker. Jimm is recruited to help the arrested worker and soon smells a rat, or rather a number of them.

  Number Eight: Smelly Man

  Who is trying to kill the smelly tramp? The tramp doesn't know, but he hires Jimm to find out. Jimm with her family and a friendly gay cop set to work on the mystery as only they can.

  Number Nine: Maprao Syndrome

  Jimm and the Thai police try to solve a kidnapping of an American lady, but all is not as it seems.

  Number Ten: Tom Tom

  Jimm chases a peeping tom which ends up being not what she thought it was.

  Number Eleven: Whale Vomit

  Jimm didn't know what she had found on the beach or how valuable it was. Her Granddad did though. What she also didn't know was the troubles her attempt to claim a fortune would lead her into.

  Number Twelve: Lost Property

  Jimm loses her handbag outside the supermarket and discovers social media. What else can a poor girl do?