A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  “Consider yourself lucky,” remarked Singh. “I don’t think they would have taken kindly to your trying your hand at a bit of blackmail as well.”

  From the quick hooded glance Ta Ieng threw at the inspector, Chhean knew that his surmise had been accurate. Ta Ieng had hoped to feather his nest too. The man was a coward and a fool.

  “Did you threaten him? Maybe with a knife? Was there an accident?” Singh was yelling and the tall man cowered before him, fear flickering in his eyes like a candle in a gust.

  “I didn’t kill Cheah Huon,” whispered Ta Ieng. “You said you would help me if I told you what I knew.” He was begging now. “Please don’t let the police blame me for this murder.”

  “Have you told me everything?” Singh had moderated his tone – suddenly he was a reasonable man asking a reasonable question.

  “Yes, of course – everything.”

  Chhean looked across at Singh. The fat man’s expression was thoughtful. Perhaps he too sensed that Ta Ieng protested too much; that, contrary to his assurances, he was holding something back.

  ♦

  “I really fancy a cold beer.” Singh spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he was discussing a mundane element of the case.

  “Me too,” admitted Chhean.

  Singh raised a single eyebrow. What had got into his interpreter? He hadn’t thought that he had so much influence over the actions of others. It was time to test the theory. “And a curry,” he asked quickly, “at one of those Indian restaurants on the map?”

  His authority was obviously limited. She shook her head and glossy hair swept her cheeks.

  “We haven’t time,” she insisted. “We have to work on this case.”

  “What do you suggest we do?” asked Singh. He was curious to see if she had picked up on the most crucial piece of evidence.

  “The judge,” she blurted out. “It sounds like one of the judges is involved.”

  Singh sat down suddenly on a bench as if the weight of his posterior could no longer defy the summons of gravity. Chhean sat down next to him. He noticed that her glum expression matched his – she was not a fool by any means. She knew what this could mean.

  “I was there when the judge – it was one of the Cambodian judges, Judge Sopheap, I think – called an end to the day’s testimony. It did strike me as strange at the time. Cheah Huon was clearly in the middle of a story.” He scratched the underside of his beard like a dog with a flea, quick regular strokes. “I assumed the judge was tired, or needed the toilet, or had an appointment – or felt like a beer and a curry.”

  Chhean’s phone beeped – indicating an SMS. Singh nodded approvingly. He liked phones that rang with old-fashioned tones and messages that sounded like electronic warnings. It got on his nerves every time he was forced to listen to a snatch of classical music or an animal sound and it turned out to be the ring tone or message alert on someone’s mobile. Why didn’t they just have the sound of fingernails on blackboards? he wondered. Or caterwauling cats?

  Chhean had read the message and now she slipped the phone back into her sturdy bag. “That was the colonel,” she said.

  “What does he want?” asked Singh truculently. He was not looking forward to relating the day’s findings to the Cambodian policeman. Especially the bit where he had gone to see Sovann and her husband.

  “He wants us to meet him at the FCC.”

  “Eh?”

  “The Foreign Correspondents’ Club – on the river.”

  Singh was in no mood for further excursions on the crowded, pot-holed roads of Phnom Penh. “Tell him we’re busy,” he insisted. “Like you said, we have to investigate.”

  “The best beer in all of Cambodia is at the FCC.”

  Singh looked at his sidekick suspiciously, eyebrows drawn together with doubt. “Is that true?”

  She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes wide open and honest.

  “All right! What are we waiting for then? Colonel Menhay needs to see us on a matter of importance.”

  In a short time they were in the back of their sedan. The policeman’s nostrils flared in disgust. “I hate the smell of stale smoke,” he complained. The detective wound down the windows with some difficulty and took a deep breath. “I also hate the smell of drains,” he yelled above the street noise and wound the glass back up.

  He leaned back in the seat, mopped his brow with the large handkerchief he kept for these occasions and reached for his cigarette pack.

  “You’re going to make it worse?” asked Chhean.

  “On the contrary, I’m going to make it better.”

  Chhean fanned away the cloud of tobacco smoke with staccato waves and asked, “What about this judge? What are we going to do?”

  Singh looked down at his large sneakers and wriggled his sticky toes. “We’re going to tread very lightly. That’s what we’re going to do.”

  If Chhean had any doubts about the ability of the large Sikh with the cavalier investigative methods to tread lightly, she kept them to herself.

  Instead she said, “If a judge is involved, there might be a mistrial.”

  The turban bobbed up and down in agreement.

  “Samrin will be dead before there is another one…”

  “Assuming that politics don’t take over and the whole ECCC isn’t chucked into the waste bin of history.”

  Chhean gazed out of the window and Singh could see that she was close to tears. He didn’t blame her. She and so many other Cambodians had invested everything into seeing some justice done for the suffering of their people. One crooked judge could destroy it all.

  “Do you think that a judge is involved?” she asked in a small voice.

  “I very much fear so.” Singh’s tone was sombre.

  Usually, when looking into a murder, the inspector was concerned only with justice for the victim. Others, especially Superintendent Chen and his ilk, might be concerned about the politics and the publicity but not him. Not Inspector Singh of the Singapore police, justly famous for his devotion to the cause of the deceased. Singh snorted out loud and Chhean turned to look at him in surprise, her eyes still wet. Singh ignored her, lost in his own thoughts. This case had dimensions that went well beyond the usual politicking. What was the use of finding justice for Huon if the end result was the collapse of the war crimes tribunal? Was immediate justice for one man more important than retrospective justice for millions of Cambodians? And who was to decide that question? Surely not Singh or Menhay, or God forbid, Adnan Muhammad?

  He muttered his last thought aloud.

  “What’s that? What’s that you said?” asked Chhean.

  “I wish I’d never come to Cambodia.”

  ♦

  Half an hour later, Inspector Singh was in a much better mood. The beer was on tap. Angkor, of course, but icy cold and with an inch of froth. The third-floor balcony was open, airy and breezy with dark spinning fans that reinforced the wind coming off the river. The wooden floors were well-worn and whispered of the footsteps of many travellers. The din of traffic and the stench of drains were physically distant, lending atmosphere rather than inducing migraines or nausea. The rich cheesy bready smell of pizza baking in a wood-fired oven was soothing. But best of all, the eclectic paper menu that kept threatening to escape his sweaty fingers and dance over the railings had a single but important reference to chicken curry. The inspector ordered the dish, repeating himself a couple of times although the waitress spoke excellent English, to be sure she understood and he would not be done out of his treat. Singh took a deep swig of his drink, wiped the white froth off his moustache and glanced around. He nodded his head. So this was where the expats hung out, those ‘in the know’ as opposed to newcomers and tourists. It reminded him of the Singapore Cricket Club. The men at the bar were large, ruddy-faced and tired – but looked at home. A French family sat at a table further along the balcony. The father was a schoolteacher, guessed Singh, kindly face and round glasses. There were very few Cambodians in the place – tho
se that were there had the look of the foreign-educated, hair slightly too long, glasses, polo T-shirts. And yet Singh did not get the impression of money. These were probably journalists or local NGO staff – their ambition to inflict pinpricks on the elephant hide of government.

  The tubby policeman looked across at his square-jawed counterpart. Colonel Menhay, in his uniform and gold-rimmed Rayban sunglasses, appeared out of place in the old-world charm of the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. He sat stiffly in his chair, as if he too was aware of the fact.

  “Why did you call us here?” asked Singh.

  “We’re waiting for someone. Did you find out anything from Ta Ieng?” It was a determined effort to change the subject by the colonel.

  Chhean looked at the inspector pleadingly. He guessed she didn’t want the judge mentioned. Singh chewed on his bottom lip – a man who couldn’t wait for his chicken curry or a man trying to make a difficult decision.

  “Well?”

  “You know Ta Ieng. ‘I was just following orders’.” Singh mimicked the man’s tone with sufficient accuracy to draw a smile from Menhay. He could sense the tension ebb from Chhean but he was not sure that she had good reason for relief. He could keep his suspicions to himself for a short while – hope that another solution presented itself – but in the end he would have to tell the colonel about the judge, whatever the consequences to the war crimes trial. Singh told himself firmly that he was just buying a bit of time, not obstructing justice.

  “Ah, here is our guest,” said Menhay in an even tone. He sounded like a man determined not to pre-judge an issue.

  Singh swivelled his body with difficulty and was taken aback to see the lean, cadaverous figure of François Gaudin. “The mad Frenchman? What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “We’re about to find out,” whispered the colonel. He stood up and ushered the man into a chair.

  Gaudin was in better shape than when Singh had last seen him. His gait was steady and his eyes less bloodshot than on the day of the murder.

  A waitress arrived bearing Singh’s chicken curry. There was an awkward silence while Singh supervised the delivery of his food with the concentration of a drug addict administering heroin intravenously.

  The inspector sniffed appreciatively. “This looks good,” he exclaimed and then, remembering his manners, he addressed the Frenchman. “Would you like something?” He sampled his lunch – “I can recommend the chicken curry.”

  François Gaudin, who appeared bemused by his surroundings or, more likely, his companions, said, “I would not mind a beer.”

  This was duly ordered and arrived with a promptness that caused a broad smile to spread across the Sikh man’s face. The service at this place was in marked contrast to the languid efforts at the other dining places Chhean had dragged him to.

  “So,” he asked complacently, “what are we all doing here?”

  They turned like puppets to look at the colonel.

  Menhay spoke in the heavy portentous tone that seemed to come naturally to all successful policemen. It indicated authority and hinted at secrets. “We believe that you might know something about the murder of Cheah Huon.” He was staring at the Frenchman full in the face as he said this.

  To his obvious disappointment, this opening gambit was met with a look of genuine bewilderment. “That man who was stabbed at the ECCC?”

  Menhay nodded. Singh shovelled some chicken curry and rice into his mouth. The truth was that it was fairly ordinary. But the lunch-time entertainment provided by Menhay and his witness was fascinating.

  “I have information that you tried to hire a hit man.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “My informant briefed me that you offered him a large sum of money to kill a witness at the war crimes tribunal. He turned you down but he was certain that you would look elsewhere.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He was completely unconvincing. Singh had the feeling that he wasn’t even trying, almost hoping that the other man would delve deeper and compel him to tell what he knew. But he still had a residual sense of self-preservation – enough to prevent him from volunteering the truth.

  The inspector leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his belly. He contemplated the Frenchman, his expression thoughtful. He had seen the man in so many guises: sobbing at the testimony of Ta Ieng, demanding to know who had been killed at the tribunal and now sipping his beer nervously at the FCC. He had heard of his collapse at Tuol Sleng prison. Menhay claimed that Gaudin had hired a hit man. But whom had he wanted dead? Surely not Huon? A memory of Gaudin’s shock when he learnt the identity of the murder victim came back to him. He suddenly had a fair idea of what had happened.

  Singh reached into his pocket for the reproduction of the painting by Vann Nath. He held it up to Gaudin.

  “This is why you did it?”

  Gaudin appeared to deflate – all the fight went out of him and it left him a limp and tired old man. The inspector had seen it before. When those who were not hardened to a life of crime were found out, they sometimes treated the revelation of their conduct as a relief. The secrecy of criminality was too great a burden for the usually law-abiding.

  “You know what that man did to the children. Perhaps they were mine as well. I just felt that if I could destroy him, it would be some retribution for my family. Some rest for me…” His voice trailed off into silence.

  “The children, your family?” Menhay sounded like a sporadic questioning echo.

  “Yes, I have told you they disappeared in the early days of the Khmer Rouge…”

  “But what have they got to do with Huon?”

  “Huon? Nothing! I didn’t even hear his testimony. I hired someone to kill Ta leng…and as I understand that he is still alive and well, I assume that the assassin has pocketed my money and done nothing for me.”

  “But you did hire a hit man?” Menhay was trying to get the questioning back on track.

  The Gallic shrug of the shoulders was wonderfully obscure. Gaudin, it turned out, was disputing the description, rather than the underlying accusation. “A hit man? I thought so – a seedy character with dirty hands who said he would kill Ta Ieng for me. He insisted on the money in advance – because it would be too dangerous for both of us if he approached me again after the killing.”

  “How much did you pay him?” asked Singh, his appetite for food temporarily sated but his appetite for information still keen.

  “A thousand US dollars.”

  “That would be a very good retirement package in Cambodia for your murderer,” muttered Menhay.

  “I guess you think I’m a fool,” said Gaudin bitterly. “Perhaps you are right. I just wanted to do something…that’s all.”

  “Murder is not ‘something’,” admonished Singh, turning his attention to the dessert menu.

  “Ta Ieng deserves to die,” protested Gaudin, waving long fingers in the air like a concert pianist.

  “But he’s not dead,” pointed out Menhay. “Singh saw him this morning. Only Cheah Huon is dead.”

  “Well, I had nothing at all to do with the killing of this…Huon, you say? Who is he to me? I hired someone to kill Ta Ieng. You will have to look elsewhere for your murderer.”

  ♦

  There was a brief interval in which the Sikh policeman ordered chocolate cake. Chhean nibbled a biscuit and wondered why the fates had made her an unwilling fourth to the table.

  “What now?” asked Menhay in a depressed voice.

  Chhean had some sympathy. His wonderful lead in the murder investigation had just petered out. The Frenchman with the long face was innocent of Huon’s killing despite having hired a hit man. She shook her head – a thousand US dollars. That was big money in Cambodia. Even she might be prepared to bump someone off for that amount. Especially if it was someone she already disliked. One of the government naysayers for instance, who kept insisting that the trial of Samrin should be postponed indefinitely –
Cambodian-speak for abandoned once and for all.

  “Wait a minute.” Singh was poised with his fork halfway to his mouth, a chunk of chocolate cake impaled on the end.

  Chhean was amused. It was clearly something of great importance if it prevented Singh from effecting an immediate transfer of food to mouth.

  “What is it?” asked Menhay, raising his head hopefully like a dog who’d heard the fridge door open.

  Singh put his fork down on the plate and stared at François Gaudin. “You hired a hit man to kill Ta Ieng?”

  “That’s what I just said,” grumbled the Frenchman with a moody expression.

  “All right – what did you say to him exactly?”

  “To whom?”

  “Your hit man!” Singh was getting impatient and it showed in voice and expression.

  “To kill the child killer…”

  “Did you name him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you sure – this is important.”

  Menhay was sitting a little straighter in his chair. Chhean was already leaning forward. She sensed that the fat man was on to something.

  “I met the man at a karaoke joint. The first guy – your informant, I guess – mentioned where I could find him,” said Gaudin carefully.

  “I knew I should have arrested that bastard,” growled Menhay. No one paid him any attention. The focus was on the inspector from Singapore.

  “You said earlier that you only heard the testimony of Ta Ieng, not Cheah Huon?” he asked.

  “Yes – after Ta Ieng testified I was too upset to stay in the courtroom.”

  “Here’s my question then,” said Singh. “Did you ask this hit man of yours to kill the witness or did you identify Ta Ieng by name?”

  “I know what you’re trying to suggest – and I refuse to accept it. I had nothing to do with the death of Cheah Huon.”

  Gaudin’s family was gone, destroyed by the Khmer Rouge. He had sought revenge – if not on the killer of his family, one very like him. He had admitted as much. But he refused to accept the possibility that a mistake had been made. Chhean realised with a burst of perspicuity that he did not fear the consequences to himself. Gaudin was just reluctant to live with the possibility – and the guilt – of having killed the wrong man.