Shamini Flint
Malaysia, 1969
A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree
Inspector Singh Investigates #4
EN, 2011
Inspector Singh is in Cambodia – wishing he wasn’t. He’s been sent as an observer to the international war crimes tribunal in Phnom Penh, the latest effort by his superiors to ensure that he is anywhere except in Singapore. But for the first time the fat Sikh inspector is on the verge of losing his appetite when a key member of the tribunal is murdered in cold blood. The authorities are determined to write off the incident as a random act of violence, but Singh thinks otherwise. It isn’t long before he finds himself caught up in one of the most terrible murder investigations he’s witnessed – the roots of which lie in the dark depths of the Cambodian killing fields…
Prologue
My feet sink into the mud as if it is quicksand. Black stuff oozes between my toes and makes a squelching noise as I walk. Each sound fills me with terror. Perhaps the men ahead of me will hear. And then, instead of following them at a safe distance, I will be one of their captives, head bowed and arms tied behind my back in flesh-cutting twine – just like my father. I can see the small group ahead, walking in single file – a cadre followed by three prisoners and then two more cadres. Khun Pa is the one in the middle, I can tell because he is the shortest. I am so terrified I have to bite my inner cheek to stop from whimpering. They will surely hear that. We have only been in the countryside for a few short months but already I know that sound travels quickly and clearly across the flat square grids of the paddy fields, ducking around small bushes and between the trunks of tall sugar palms until they reach the sharp ears of the soldiers.
The little procession up front pauses and I think back over the events of that evening. Shivers run through my body like ripples on a pond when the fish are jumping: Khmer Rouge cadres, dark men with badly cut hair and rotting teeth, arrive at our regulation-sized hut in the late evening. They smile and say not to worry. They just need Khun Pa to attend a re-education camp for a few weeks because he was one of the ‘new’ people, recently arrived from Phnom Penh. My mother falls to her knees and begs them not to take him. Her coppery skin is streaked with tears. It offends the leader that she does not believe his protests that Pa will only be gone for a short while. He shouts at her to be quiet. I steal a quick glance at my father to see how he reacts. He says nothing. Perhaps, like me, he knows that coming to Ma’s defence will only make things worse.
Pa gets to his feet slowly, a slight man with sticking out ears and a kindly blank gaze. His pale yellow skin marks him out as part-Chinese. He blinks at the guards in their black pyjamas, red and white checked kramas hanging loosely around their shoulders. I can see from his slight squint that he is trying to focus. Pa hid his glasses on the long walk from the city – rumours were swirling that ‘intellectuals’ were being targeted. Glasses were proof of mysterious and dangerous city influences that the new regime had sworn to eradicate. Now, the precious delicate circles of smudged glass, held together with thin wire, are wrapped in a piece of cloth and hidden in the hollow of a bamboo pole.
“We need to be sure that you support our glorious peasant revolution,” explains cadre number one. He is much shorter than the rest and his black outfit, baggy shirt and drawstring trousers are shiny with newness. He turns to look at Khun Ma and I notice that he has a birthmark, a rose-coloured oval shape the size of a palm, on the side of his neck. He looks healthy – and well fed. This means he is senior within the Khmer Rouge. As the final evidence of his stature, he is wearing a gold watch, obviously confiscated from some new arrival. He wears it loosely around his wrist as if it is a gold bangle rather than a timepiece. I note that it is upside down. Khun Ma – before she fell silent with hunger – was quietly scathing about the ‘savages’ stealing things they did not understand. Perhaps she was not quiet enough. The Khmer Rouge have eyes and ears everywhere as neighbours trade neighbours for an extra portion of gruel. I shake my head and feel the rough edges of my hair brush my cheeks. I must not blame Ma or the others – I know instinctively that this is what they want.
Pa nods in response to the cadre’s expressed doubt about his loyalty to the new regime. He is not agreeing with them, only acknowledging their desire to re-educate him. This is not the first we have heard of the ‘re-education’ camps. Uncle Lay was taken away last week and one of our neighbours as well. Someone told them that the men used to be in Lon Nol’s army. But my Pa was not in the military. He has never fired a gun. He was a pharmacist, running a small ill-stocked apothecary on the edge of Phnom Penh.
Pa licks his dry, cracked lips quickly with a furtive tongue. Is Khun Pa afraid? My own father who urged us to be brave, carried my two younger brothers, one on his back and one in his arms, and walked courageously at the head of our little family column when we were evacuated from Phnom Penh? My own fear is like a stone in my chest, making it difficult to breathe.
The cadres drag Pa out of the small hut on stilts that has been our home for six months. Ma’s sobs become loud, uncontrollable. One of the men aims a kick at her with big dirty feet. I notice his sandals, made from the black rubber of car tyres, and wonder at myself that I can absorb this irrelevant detail while Pa is being taken from us. Khun Ma cowers but cannot or will not stop crying. My brothers crowd around her, seeking comfort or giving it – I don’t know. I have made up my mind. I wait a few moments and then slip out after the men. I need to know where they are taking him.
Now as I drag my tired legs through the paddy fields, I regret my hasty decision. But always the sight of my father ahead of me, stumbling as he walks without his glasses, keeps me going.
At last, the procession in front of me stops. In the light of the full moon, I see their silhouettes against the night, like characters in a shadow puppet play. Snatches of conversation are carried to me on a gentle breeze that runs curious fingers through my short hair. I cannot make out individual words even though I am straining as if I were lifting heavy sacks of rice. I crouch behind a bush. I do not know the name of the plant but it has a fragrant smell that perfumes the night. There is so much I still don’t know about the countryside. I slowly make my way, bent over almost double, to a clump of sugar palms. I need to get closer to see what is happening. Something slithers across my foot and my blood runs cold. There is no medicine under the Khmer Rouge to treat snakebite. I do not want to die, not now, not here.
The prisoners are doing something – bent over, working with slow repetitive strokes. I am puzzled. It is dark. The digging and planting of rice seedlings is daytime work, even under the Khmer Rouge. As I get closer, I crawl on my hands and knees along a dyke. Even if they see me they will assume that such a small black figure is a stray dog or a wild pig. I just hope that none of them has a gun and decides that he would like meat in his stew.
The leader leans forward and snatches something from Pa’s hands. I see from its shape that it is a shovel. Why are they making the men dig trenches in the middle of the night? He barks a command in the harsh tone that the Khmer Rouge soldiers use to communicate. I pray to the Buddha, seeking his intervention to help Pa, knowing it is futile. In my mind, the Buddha is the impassive stone statue, cool to the touch, in the wat near our Phnom Penh home, not the compassionate being of my mother’s simple faith. I know that the Buddha will not help because I have seen the others – so many of them – beg for his aid: pregnant women giving birth by the side of the road, young mothers with sick babies, old people, the wounded and the disabled, abandoned on the long march by families that cannot care for them any more. They all called for help from the Buddha and he did nothing – why should I be different? We must help ourselves and each
other. That is the only truth. But how can I help Khun Pa? I lean my forehead against the trunk of a palm and its cool rough surface reminds me of that statue of the Buddha. For a brief moment, I am comforted by the misleading sensation of familiarity.
The prisoners fall to their knees on the soft earth. One of them utters a soft moan. I cannot tell if it is my father. I hope not. I peer into the night. My eyes are accustomed to the darkness now. The light of the moon seems as bright as the paper lanterns in our old living room. The prisoners are on their knees in a row, facing away from me. A cadre barks an instruction and all three men bow their heads as if in prayer. I am still trying to understand what is going on when the short cadre with the gold watch raises the shovel and brings it crashing down on the back of Khun Pa’s head. In that instant the only thing I can think of is that Pa will not need his glasses any more.
One
Cambodia. What did he know about Cambodia of all places?
Inspector Singh held out his passport and carefully printed e-ticket to the woman at the counter. At least, in a previous era, the sheer complexity of the ticketing documentation suggested that an adventure was in the offing. Now catching a flight was like boarding a bus. Except that buses didn’t travel thirty-eight thousand feet in the air or at nine hundred kilometres per hour. Singh reminded himself that flying was, statistically speaking, safer than driving a car. It didn’t help his pre-flight nerves.
“Frequent flyer?” The smartly dressed woman had enough paint on her face to have sufficed for Picasso.
“No,” he snapped. “As little as possible, actually.”
She giggled, baring two front teeth that were edged in crimson. He supposed it was lipstick – it looked as if she had been nibbling on livestock.
She tried again. “No, sir. I mean are you a member of any frequent flyer programmes?”
He shook his head resolutely, his turban making an emphatic hundred and eighty arc. He was not a frequent flyer although at the rate his bosses were sending him on bizarre assignments as far away from Singapore as possible, he soon would be.
The woman was typing furiously. He craned his short neck, wishing he could see what she was doing. How could it possibly require so much input to assign him a seat? Maybe, she was writing a novel between passengers. Maybe she was writing a novel about passengers.
“Aisle or window seat?”
“Aisle,” growled the inspector. “Definitely aisle.” It was closer to the emergency exits and had less view of the distant ground. He watched his small suitcase roll away on the conveyor belt, wheels wobbling uncertainly. He hadn’t locked the bag. Any Cambodian airport staff with light fingers would be very disappointed to discover a stack of carefully ironed identical white shirts, two pairs of dark trousers and white socks. He didn’t even have a spare pair of shoes. The comfortable shiny white sneakers encasing his big feet were quite sufficient. He wasn’t planning on visiting any fancy restaurants with dress codes, assuming there were such things in Phnom Penh.
“Visiting Angkor Wat?”
“What?”
“No, wat – you know Angkor Wat!”
He looked at her suspiciously. Was she trying to be funny? Or worse, friendly? He’d rather she just gave him his boarding pass. Singh was highly sceptical of the polished pleasantness of airline staff, convinced that the glib good nature was based on carefully rehearsed lines from an expensive training manual.
“I’m attending the trial of the ex-Khmer Rouge leader, Samrin, for crimes against humanity at the Extraordinary Chambers of the Courts of Cambodia in Phnom Penh.” Singh resorted to the sort of pomposity he despised in his superiors to create a barrier between himself and this highly-powdered woman.
He was handed his boarding pass without further attempts at conversation. The policeman felt a moment of guilt that he had thwarted her attempt at friendliness. Still, she was probably relieved to get back to her novel or resignation letter or whatever it was she was typing with such firm strokes.
An hour later he was on a plane. Only Silk Air flew this route and they didn’t have the wide-bodied jets of the Singapore Airlines fleet, which was a shame, as he preferred planes with more engines and more space. The passenger next to him, a large man with a Roman nose, had laid claim to their shared seat divider by placing a hairy arm on it immediately upon boarding. Singh scowled but did not contest this pre-emptive possession. The policeman’s feet were as far under the seat in front as he could get them, which was not far at all. He gulped his orange juice from the plastic container provided, stuck it into the seat pocket, checked again where the nearest exits were and stared at the in-flight magazine, hoping to while away the time. Photos of Angkor Wat dominated an article on Cambodia. It was an enormous complex of temples built around the twelfth century by a Hindu king. There were majestic towers, careful decorations and detailed bas reliefs – including an enormous array of well-endowed, scantily-clad women. He pictured his wife, her mouth puckered in a censorious grimace. She didn’t approve of images of voluptuous naked women and it made no difference whether it was in a magazine, on the internet or on an ancient Cambodian temple monument to the god-king Vishnu. She had a point, he supposed. Would eight hundred years of history render Playboy magazines objects of genuine artistic and historical interest, carefully preserved in glass cases?
He closed his heavy-lidded eyes, folded his arms across his belly and contemplated his mission. His bosses had really outdone themselves this time. He had known he was in their black books after his cavalier treatment of due process in the last murder he had investigated in Singapore. But he had expected to ride it out, as he had done throughout the course of his career. He had planned to work diligently on a few low-key murders – those that did not have his superiors breathing down his neck – the killing of someone ‘unimportant’. A maid perhaps or a foreign labourer. Singh didn’t mind those cases where he was not the front-page news every morning. Indeed, he preferred them. His satisfaction was from lining up his turban and his broad nose in the direction of a killer, in ensuring that the victim did not go unavenged. In a murder case, reparation was impossible, of course. The killer had taken something that he could not return – the life of another human being. It was Singh’s life mission to tramp after the murderers in his snowy white sneakers, following the evidence and his instincts, ignoring the advice and warnings of his superiors, stopping only for regular meals, cold beer and the odd afternoon nap, until he had ensured some justice for the dead.
Superintendent Chen had other ideas.
“We’re sending you to Cambodia,” he said importantly from behind his big empty desk.
“Have I won the police sweepstake?”
Superintendent Chen responded through clenched teeth, the mere sight of his chubby subordinate probably too much for his fragile nerves. “It’s an assignment. You’ve been volunteered by the Singapore government to hold a watching brief on behalf of ASEAN at the war crimes tribunal in Phnom Penh.”
He was met with silence.
“Some of the other ASEAN countries were worried that we might not be able to spare our top murder cop,” continued Chen, referring to the Association of South East Asian Nations and rubbing his hands together. He added, grinning slyly at his unhappy subordinate, “I assured them it was no trouble – no trouble at all.”
Singh scowled. Superintendent Chen always gave him indigestion, which was a shame as he had enjoyed his long curried lunch.
“Why in the world would you send me?”
“You like murder investigations, right? After all, aren’t you the Inspector Singh, leading criminal investigator in Singapore? Well, I’m giving you a whole genocide. Think of it as a late Christmas bonus.”
Singh rubbed his eyes and smelt the faint whiff of curry from lunch on his fingers. The traces of chilli, impossible to wash out first time, made his eyes water.
“But what am I supposed to do there?” he demanded.
“Nothing at all,” admitted Chen. “You’re just window
dressing so that the Cambodians – they’re very sensitive about their place in ASEAN – think we give a damn about their war crimes tribunal.”
It seemed he was to twiddle his thumbs at the trial of a man accused of killing thousands of his compatriots. Singh screwed up his face and stuck out his pink bottom lip. He guessed the boss was hoping for a refusal so that he would finally have an excuse to get rid of his recalcitrant subordinate. The inspector held his tongue. He wasn’t going to give the other man the satisfaction. Instead, he nodded curtly, indicating his willingness to go. After all, it might be interesting and Cambodian food, whatever it was, might be good. Singh’s brow creased in concentration as he contemplated his new and unexpected mission attending the trial of a man accused of mass murder. What was it that Stalin had said? Kill one person and it’s murder, kill a million and it’s a statistic?
♦
François Gaudin stood outside the gates of the French embassy. The usual traffic of motorbikes, tuk tuks and cyclos hurtled by, their drivers shouting out offers of transport. The gate, in this era of truck bombs and suicide bombers, was a sturdy iron retractable construct embedded in a thick high wall with spikes along the top. Security personnel glared at him from within a fortified glass cubicle. They were armed and alert, watching him with cold eyes. These days, everyone was an enemy, a potential threat, a suicide bomber, until proven otherwise. That hadn’t been the case in the old days. Despite the Cold War, despite Ho Chi Minh, despite Kissinger, it had seemed like a safer world then to a naive young French teacher at a school in Phnom Penh.
François was an old man now, slightly stooped with thick white hair in tight curls around a thin long face. Sunken grey eyes suggested a man who had suffered some emotional torment in the past which was never quite forgotten, always on the edge of memory. After all these years, what had it been – thirty? – Gaudin had finally plucked up the courage to return to Cambodia, to try and find out what had happened to his wife and children.
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