A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  Sopheap looked as if he was close to tears.

  Singh had guessed right. The justice didn’t know about the second murder.

  “The court of public opinion doesn’t need proof beyond reasonable doubt,” pointed out Singh.

  Sopheap was staring blankly out of the window. Watching his precious career go up in flames, thought Singh snidely.

  “Why didn’t you get some runner to pay Huon instead of exposing yourself?” The inspector’s voice was quiet but penetrating.

  “I didn’t know anyone I could trust.”

  It was like the first crack in an eggshell – soon the truth would emerge, covered in lies and self-justifications, but the truth nonetheless.

  “What did Huon have to say that you feared so much?”

  “Not me…”

  “Someone you worked for?”

  “I was approached by a man over the phone. He said he could guarantee my place on the bench.”

  Singh nodded his understanding.

  Sopheap was still talking, trying to defend his actions. “He wasn’t asking that I manipulate the outcome of Samrin’s trial.” He stopped picking at the thread and met Singh’s gaze. “I insisted on that.”

  “You’re a real hero,” growled the fat man.

  “Later, he asked me to pay Huon to keep quiet. I found the money in here.” His eyes darted about the room like a moth looking for an exit. “He has people everywhere and I don’t know who they are – none of them.”

  That accounted for the haunted air of the man in front of him. Sopheap was jumping at shadows, terrified of his mysterious paymaster.

  “I did as he requested. It seemed a small thing – nothing to do with the trial,” continued Sopheap.

  “Bribing witnesses had nothing to do with the trial?” Singh could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Som’s body, what was left of it, was firmly in his mind’s eye.

  “I meant nothing to do with Samrin,” muttered the other man. “That’s what this trial is about.”

  Singh ignored this legal solipsism. “Who was it? Who was this man?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked up at Singh, his expression pleading. “I swear I don’t know.”

  Singh debated whether to believe him.

  The other man was still talking. “Huon told me that he knew for a fact that a high-ranking government official had been senior in the Khmer Rouge. This man, when he saw that the Khmer Rouge was doomed, he fled to Vietnam. He returned when it was safe and claimed that he had been hiding out in Vietnam all those years.”

  “And you’re still trying to tell me you don’t know who this is?”

  “Huon wanted to tell me but I stopped him. I didn’t want to know. I was too afraid.”

  See no evil, hear no evil, thought Singh with disgust. But sometimes one did evil by choosing to remain ignorant. His sidekick, Chhean, came to mind. She walked through life with her eyes wide open, unwilling to ignore the corruption in Cambodian society. This man was made of weaker stuff.

  “Did he ask you to kill Huon? When the bribes stopped working – when Huon hinted at secrets in court?”

  Sopheap shook his head, gesturing with flat palms for the inspector to stop hurling accusations at him. “He said I had to do something. I couldn’t think what to do. I was in a panic.”

  From his rolling eyes and the way his body was pressed back against his seat, Singh knew he was not exaggerating.

  “I could never kill a man, you see.”

  He sounded like he meant it but Singh was in no mood to be charitable.

  “In fact, when I heard the news of Huon, I thought he had done it or found someone else to do it. I was shocked. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “He thought I had killed Huon.” He sounded genuinely aggrieved.

  “Did you deny it?”

  “Of course, but he wouldn’t believe me. He just laughed and insisted that I had done well.”

  “What about Som?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The amputee who recognised you – he’s dead too, I’m afraid.”

  “How?” A whisper of sound.

  “Murdered.”

  After a long pause, it was the judge’s turn for a question. “Do you think this man killed Som?”

  Singh nodded without hesitation. He had no doubts on the subject.

  A small sigh greeted his response.

  “What about Huon?”

  “That probably was the unbalanced Frenchman.”

  There was pregnant silence as each man considered his next step. Sopheap rose and walked to the window. If Singh had been a superstitious man, he would have imagined that Som’s spirit was there in the room with them, demanding an accounting.

  “What happened to Som? I mean, how did he die?”

  “Gunned down in cold blood at Choeng Ek.”

  Judge Sopheap returned to his chair and sat down. Once again he was presiding over events – a man whom life had taught the gift of command but who had traded it in for a position that he would probably have received anyway. “Inspector Singh – what do you plan to do with this information?”

  “I guess that’s up to you.”

  ♦

  Singh was down the stairs and halfway across the compound when he heard the unmistakeable sound of a single gunshot.

  The policeman turned around slowly. People were hurrying in the direction of the noise, towards the judges’ chambers. A high-pitched scream pierced the air – someone had found the body, he guessed. He spotted Menhay hurrying out of his office. He considered going back, hesitated on the spot for a long time. But in the end decided against it. He knew what he would find, didn’t have to see it.

  Cambodia had claimed another life.

  Seventeen

  Singh waited in Menhay’s office, reading the newspapers until the colonel returned.

  “What happened? I noticed a bit of a commotion.”

  “One of the judges, Sopheap, killed himself – single shot to the head.”

  “Will it affect the trial?” asked Singh quickly.

  Menhay shook his head. “There are two reserve judges who sit in on the hearings…”

  Singh had sensed a streak of integrity in the judge. And he’d been right. The news that his anonymous master had killed a man – gunned down an amputee – had been too much for him. He had done the decent thing and taken the only way out that did not affect the war crimes tribunal.

  “I wonder why he did it?” Menhay sounded puzzled and worried.

  “The strain of presiding over the tribunal must have been too much,” suggested Singh. “Let’s hope the reserve judges are made of sterner stuff.”

  Menhay nodded.

  Singh fervently hoped that neither of the reserve judges was in the pay of this mysterious character who had suborned Sopheap. The tentacles of corruption were hard to disentangle in Cambodia. The inspector debated telling Menhay about Sopheap and decided against it. He might feel obliged to reveal the information – and that would be the end of the trial of Samrin. There was no way it would survive the discovery that one of the judges was corrupt. A mistrial would be declared and Samrin would die of old age before it recommenced. Sopheap’s – and Som’s – sacrifice deserved a better ending. It would have been different if he could see a way to find the puppet master – this high-ranking government official who was a former Khmer Rouge leader. The man who had paid Huon and Sopheap and killed Som. But Sopheap had only felt the pull and jerk of the strings.

  Singh rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. They had solved the murder of Huon and he at least understood how Som had come to his death although the face of that killer was still hidden from view. It would have to do. In Cambodia, he feared, there were only small successes, no grand triumphs. At least they had saved the tribunal and with it the possibility that at least some of the big fish would face justice, even if many – so many more – eluded it.

  He decided to focus on th
e small fry for a moment. “What’s the story with the Armstrongs?” he asked. “Have they been released?”

  “Yes.” Menhay was in a taciturn mood.

  “Did Armstrong retract his confession?”

  “Very quickly. He apologised for wasting police time. They plan to go to Siem Reap to recuperate from their experience. I guess they’ll be staying at the Raffles there too.”

  Singh ignored this mild envy of a working class man for the habits of the rich. He asked, “Are you going to charge Armstrong with anything?”

  “He was just trying to protect his wife.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Do you want a medal?”

  Singh slapped the colonel on the back. “Why are you so grumpy anyway? You’ve found your murderer. The trial will recommence tomorrow. You should be in a good mood. Colonel Menhay saves the day. You’ll get a medal.”

  The other man essayed a small smile. “You’re right. And I know I should thank you.”

  Singh shook his head. “It was your contact who came through. It shows that only someone with his ear to the ground can solve a murder. I would never have fingered the Frenchman if you hadn’t brought him in. It will be a lesson for Adnan Muhammad not to import policemen and expect them to get the job done.”

  Neither man looked convinced that the UN man was the sort to derive lessons from experience, only from white papers and PhD theses.

  “You were convinced of Sovann Armstrong’s innocence in spite of the evidence…you fought for time – and we found Gaudin.” Menhay was generous with praise.

  “I was just lucky,” remarked the fat man jovially. He was prepared to be self-deprecating now that the case was closed. He was pleased with himself though – he’d backed his instincts on Sovann and they had come up trumps. The Singh’s nose for crime was still a finely tuned instrument.

  “Where’s Chhean?” asked Menhay suddenly.

  Singh’s face drooped like that of a snowman in the warmth. “I don’t know. She said she needed some time on her own.”

  “Poor kid, it was a big disappointment.”

  “When I saw the photos…” It was not difficult to remember the feeling – it had been like a punch to the gut, almost as shocking as when Som had been murdered in the killing fields. “I was just so sure they were one and the same.”

  “At the end of the day, I think she’s better off without such a man for a father.” Menhay looked at Singh hopefully as if seeking corroboration that it was more desirable that Chhean spend the rest of her life trawling through documents in dusty archives than have a murderer for a parent.

  “You’re probably right,” agreed Singh. The two men sat in melancholy companionship, all their glee over the resolution of the case lost in the memory of Chhean, her face ashen and her eyes like dark wounds, as she realised that she had not, after all, found a family.

  ♦

  A few hours later, as a bright day turned into a golden dusk, Singh walked along the river front dragging his feet and scuffing his heels as he went. He had left Menhay to his own thoughts and regrets and spent the afternoon nursing a beer at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. It had not improved his mood – well, that was not strictly true: it had improved his mood but not sufficiently. He had decided to walk back to the Cambodiana despite all his previous walking adventures having been such disasters. He waved away the usual offers – as it was late evening these now included the services of young women – and the repetitive chorus of “You remember me?”. He would not remember them. Only Chhean with her brusque manner and glossy short hair would stay in his memory. In a way, he realised to his surprise, his erstwhile assistant was clearer in his mind’s eye than Sovann Armstrong. The latter had left him with a fleeting impression of elegance, the scent of expensive perfume, but it was difficult at that moment to form a mental picture of her face. His wife would be pleased, he decided. Perhaps he was less susceptible to a pretty face than she usually suspected.

  Thoughts of his wife led him to shove his wallet deeper into his pocket. Her universe was peopled with pickpockets and petty thieves and she would have been horrified to see him sauntering along so carelessly. Mrs Singh moved like a secret agent through the streets of a strange town, always on the lookout for miscreants, her bag clutched to her side like a gold ingot. “You can’t just swing-swing and walk,” she had said to him sharply once, referring to women who foolishly dangled their handbags on their arms as they ambled down sidewalks. Singh sighed. He missed his wife. He wished he was home now, sniffing the rich curry smells coming from the kitchen rather than returning to the shiny impersonality of his hotel.

  As he turned into the driveway, carefully manicured bushes on each side, he was surprised to see a police car parked outside the main entrance. An anxious uniform was scanning the horizon. As Singh hove into view, there was a sudden outbreak of wild waving. The policeman jumped into the vehicle and shot towards Singh with such energy that the fat man cautiously climbed onto the pavement. Lights and sirens rendered the man inaudible as he pulled up, hopped out and flung open the back door. The policeman was almost lip reading, before he understood the message. It was a summons from Menhay.

  Unfortunately, the driver hardly spoke English so Singh was forced to restrain his curiosity and while away the time with mental threats if it turned out not to be important. The colonel had come between him and his dinner and that was a serious transgression in Singh’s eyes. To his mild surprise they headed towards the outskirts of town instead of the police headquarters. It seemed that they were on the way to the tribunal compound.

  Forty-five minutes later, Singh was in Menhay’s office. The colonel was nowhere to be found. He sat on the edge of the desk, swinging his feet like a lonely child. What was the use of dragging him away from his dinner and then leaving him to his own devices?

  It was Chhean who came to fetch him. He stared at her in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “The colonel sent for me. He said it was important – and it is.”

  “Enough games, young lady. What’s this about?”

  Another smile – what was the matter with her? “Come with me,” she said and led him out of the office.

  She turned in the direction of the block where Huon had been killed a week ago. He could see that she was desperate that he question her further, bubbling with excitement like an overflowing pot. Singh, however, was feeling rebellious so they walked in silence, short legs moving in rhythm but the owners at odds.

  Chhean knocked on a door and the harsh voice of the colonel barked permission to come in. Singh entered cautiously. The last time Menhay had waved him into one of these rooms, a dead man had been sprawled across the floor. The scene that met his eyes this time was almost as disturbing.

  Menhay sat in a plastic chair. Across from him, about six feet away, another man sat in an almost identical chair. It reminded Singh of a stage play, one of those dull arty ones with a lot of conversation and complex lighting. Here, the only light was coming through a small window behind the colonel, darkening his swarthy complexion into invisibility. It lit up the other man’s face and reflected off the handcuffs that encircled his wrists behind the chair. Singh noted that the prisoner’s flat unlined face was badly bruised and that his bottom lip was cut; only congealed blood held the fault line together.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded. Singh was upset and he didn’t bother to hide it. He was happy to take liberties with police procedure but he drew a line at beating prisoners and he was genuinely shocked at the scene before him. The victim didn’t look up, his spirit well and truly defeated. Chhean and Menhay both faced the inspector. Neither looked guilty or embarrassed. Singh wished he had not grown so fond of these two – the gulf between them was very wide indeed at that moment.

  Menhay’s developing frown was like the slow movement of tectonic plates. “What do you think I’m doing? Beating up this rat?”

  “Yes, that’s what it looks like.” Singh’s tone was even
but his anger was fizzing beneath the surface.

  “I thought you knew me better than that.”

  Singh quickly revised his thinking. “Who is he?”

  “An assassin.”

  “What? Whom did he kill?” Singh was pale in the half light. Had Samrin cheated justice? Or was this the serial killer?

  “No one.”

  Singh wished there was a third chair in the room. He felt like sitting down. “Stop playing the fool, Menhay.”

  Chhean butted in, her voice high-pitched with excitement. “This man tried to kill Ta Ieng! But Ta Ieng managed to hold him off and call for help. Security arrested him.”

  “That’s how he got his injuries,” said the colonel dryly. “Ta Ieng is not in great shape either but he should live – assuming our Cambodian hospitals don’t finish off the job, of course.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Singh. “I should have trusted you.”

  Menhay shrugged. “You are right to be cautious. People are not always what they appear.”

  The inspector decided to ignore this piece of homespun wisdom as he had no idea what Menhay meant. “So, why did he try to kill Ta Ieng?”

  “Ask him!”

  Singh turned to the man and Chhean translated his hasty question.

  The man muttered a response that was almost inaudible.

  Chhean’s translation however was loud and clear. “He was hired to do it by a barang who paid him US$1,000.”

  The hair on Singh’s arms stood up. “You mean…”

  “Yes, this is the man François Gaudin hired to kill Ta Ieng. Both men have confirmed it.” Menhay spoke matter-of-factly.

  Again it was Chhean who embellished the explanation. “It wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. François did not name the victim but he did refer to him as a child killer. This man did some investigation and discovered that he meant Ta Ieng.”

  Singh glared at the would-be killer. Whoever heard of a paid assassin who did research? So much for his theory on cut-price thugs. This one apparently took pride in his work.