A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  “Do you understand what this means?” It was Chhean again, insistent, demanding their acknowledgement of what she knew to be the truth. “François Gaudin is innocent.”

  “He did hire a hit man – I wouldn’t call that innocent,” grumbled Menhay.

  “You know what I mean.” She sounded almost as pleased as if Gaudin had been her father. “He didn’t kill Huon!”

  Eighteen

  Singh and Menhay drank strong coffee at the tribunal canteen. A gloomier pair would have been difficult to find in Cambodia. Sagging jowls and down-turned lips created a similarity of appearance despite the superficial differences. The waitress had placed the coffee before them and hurried away. It was the Cambodian way to smile and smile despite setbacks. These two didn’t seem to know that and it was unnerving.

  “My other suspect is sitting by the pool at the Raffles in Siem Reap,” grumbled the colonel.

  Singh might have added that yet another one had just committed suicide but he did not. Sopheap was dead by his own hand. But he didn’t think he’d killed Huon. His story, and unfeigned indignation as he described being accused of murder by his paymaster, had rung true. “Are you going to rearrest the Armstrongs?”

  “I’ll look like a real fool if I do that without further evidence. And it’s not them – it’s her. He’s withdrawn his confession.”

  Singh sighed and the lines that ran from nose to mouth deepened. They had come full circle and the woman with the fingerprints on the knife was once again the main, the only, suspect. Sovann Armstrong needed more than a fat Sikh champion to keep her out of trouble this time.

  Menhay’s telephone rang. He reached into his breast pocket and held the device to his ear. He listened without saying a single word although Singh sensed that his initial lack of interest had been superseded by curiosity.

  “What is it?” he demanded as Menhay terminated the call.

  “Ta Ieng has regained consciousness. He wants to speak to us. In fact, he wants to speak to you.”

  Singh rose to his feet, using the table for support. Menhay was able to assume a standing position under the power of his leg muscles alone. The fat man scowled. He really needed to get into shape. He and the colonel were almost the same height and the same heavyset build but there the similarities ended. Menhay’s muscular thighs and forearms bulged through his olive green uniform. It was probably because they were still physically chasing down the bad guys in Cambodia while in Singapore his work was mostly cerebral, decided Singh, as he panted after the fast-moving figure of the colonel.

  Yet another car journey later, Singh winced with dismay as they walked through the open wards crowded with beds and hot and humid at this late hour. Although the would-be killer of Ta Ieng had been apprehended, Menhay was taking no chances and Ta Ieng had a private room. There were some unexpected advantages to being ex-Khmer Rouge. Singh noted the policeman at the door and nodded approvingly.

  Ta Ieng turned to face them the minute they walked in. He was lying under a thin blanket drawn up to his waist. His upper body was bare and Singh could see the blood-stained bandages across his chest from the attack.

  “What was the weapon?” he asked Menhay.

  “Switch blade. The assassin claims to have thrown it over the fence yesterday and collected it this evening.”

  Singh thought of the overweight guards carefully manning the x-ray machines at the entrance. It didn’t seem that difficult to circumvent them.

  “Lucky he didn’t have a gun, eh?” Singh said in a cheerful loud voice to the injured man. Menhay translated with an expression of distaste on his face.

  Ta Ieng held out an injured claw-like hand, the drip needle taped to the surface. “I need your help. I’m afraid I will be killed.”

  “The man who attacked you is behind bars,” explained the inspector. “I think you’re safe.”

  The man on the bed was not reassured. His eyes were wide pools of fear. Singh felt a sudden overwhelming sense of revulsion. How many of this man’s victims had looked at him with just such an expression? How much mercy had he shown?

  “Why are you so afraid?” he asked.

  “I know too much,” whispered Ta Ieng. “I know too much.”

  Singh shrugged burly shoulders to convey his indifference. “Why don’t you tell us what you know and we’ll decide if you need any more protection.”

  Menhay repeated his words in Khmer and added to the inspector, “I also told him that I would remove the guard at the door if he didn’t speak up.”

  The fat man scratched an armpit. He suspected fleas. The hospital was the most unhygienic one he had ever been in. There were streaks of dirt on the floor and the walls were stained with damp. Ta Ieng’s blanket didn’t look too clean either. He wondered whether they sterilised the needles. Singh fervently hoped he never ended up in a Cambodian hospital. He suspected that the survival rates weren’t very high. In fact, it was the sort of place where the death rates probably exceeded the number of patients as friends and relatives also caught deadly diseases.

  Ta Ieng turned away from them and stared at the opposite wall. Considering his limited options, suspected Singh.

  “Did Huon tell you anything?”

  The stick-like man turned back. He shook his head. “He hinted that he knew that one of the government bigwigs was ex-Khmer Rouge, one of the cadres reporting directly to Pol Pot, but he wouldn’t tell me which one. We had a big quarrel.”

  The sounds of the argument that Sovann had heard on her way to see Huon. Singh wondered whether Ta Ieng was cautiously feeling his way to a confession of murder. That would be very convenient indeed. He might have immunity from his Khmer Rouge-era crimes but Menhay would enjoy locking him up for a present-day murder.

  “I hit Cheah Huon.” Ta Ieng gestured to his own chin to indicate where the blow had landed.

  Menhay and Singh exchanged glances. That explained the bruising on his chin that Savuth had identified.

  “He fell down – his balance was not so good because of the leg.”

  The policemen waited in silence.

  Ta Ieng, clearly unnerved by their impassive faces, became voluble. “He was lying on the ground. One leg was like this.” He indicated how the prosthetic limb lay across the man on the floor.

  And then you grabbed a knife and stabbed him, thought Singh. And that also explains why the knife wound was horizontal – it was not an indication of the height of the killer. Huon had been prone on the floor – and unconscious – when he was stabbed.

  “You killed him?” asked Singh.

  Ta Ieng shook his head rapidly from side to side. His eyes were wild with terror. “No, I ran from the room. I was afraid that he was already dead. He was so still and white. I didn’t have a knife.”

  Singh’s entire body sagged with disappointment. He had been so certain that Ta Ieng was about to admit to murder.

  The thin figure lying on the bed was still speaking, his voice reduced to a whisper so that they had to lean forward to hear him. “I heard footsteps so I hid in a doorway. I was terrified that I would be caught. I still thought that I might have really hurt him. Someone passed me. The person stopped at the door to Huon’s room to look around. Huon must have been still unconscious because there was no sound. I saw a knife in the hand.”

  “Did you see who it was?” shouted Menhay, unable to stand the convoluted explanation – and the added burden of a simultaneous translation – any more.

  “Yes…”

  “Well, who was it?”

  “I didn’t recognise her at the time.”

  Singh froze at the use of the female pronoun.

  “Later I saw her picture in the newspaper when she was arrested for the murder.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Will you provide security for me? I must have protection!”

  Singh still didn’t understand his fear. It seemed out of proportion to the threat. The man who had attacked him was in custody and so was the Frenchman who had paid for the attack
. Was he such a coward?

  Menhay nodded – just once – but it was enough for the other man.

  “I think her name was Sovann Armstrong.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Menhay was leaning over Ta Ieng as if he was a priest performing the last rites.

  “I didn’t want to get involved.”

  “And now? What’s changed your mind?” Singh was convinced there was more and he needed to know what it was.

  “When you released the man and wife – I approached them.”

  It was like a lightning flash of understanding. Singh knew exactly where Ta Ieng was going with his long-winded, self-serving tale. It was with utmost restraint that he prevented himself from barging in with his version of events.

  Ta Ieng pressed his head against the pillow so that his eyes and chin were facing the discoloured ceiling. “I asked for money…the husband, he gave me a few hundred dollars and he promised me more – if I kept my mouth shut.”

  “And now you think that they might murder you rather than pay you?”

  “The police say that a Frenchman sent the killer. I don’t believe it. I think it was the American – the husband. I am sure he will try to have me murdered again. He will not rest until I am dead and their secret is safe.”

  It was the constant fear of a blackmailer. Singh had seen it so many times before. When did the victim decide to take matters into their own hands? How much money was too much? Ta Ieng’s story made sense. He had witnessed something important but kept quiet about it – his instinct for secrecy so much greater than any desire to tell what he had seen. His information must have appeared worthless – until the Armstrongs were released. And then, instead of revealing what he knew, he had decided to milk a cash cow. No wonder he was afraid. No wonder he was sceptical that just because one hit man had been arrested, another wouldn’t follow.

  “Will you protect me from them?” asked Ta Ieng.

  “If you keep your mouth shut about what you’ve just told us, if you agree to testify in court about what you saw and what you did – then yes, I will keep you alive because you are more valuable to me alive than dead.” Menhay sounded like he meant it but only within those limited parameters.

  Ta Ieng did not protest the terms of the bargain – all his cards were on the table. He nodded rapidly and the tears that were nestling in his eyes spilt over.

  ♦

  “I still can’t believe it,” grumbled Singh.

  Menhay threw him a sideways glance. They were at the airport, waiting for a flight to Siem Reap.

  “Fingerprints on the knife, eyewitness sees her go into the room with knife, Huon is unconscious so the stab wound is horizontal and they paid Ta Ieng to keep quiet…sounds like a guilty conscience to me.” The colonel recited the facts in a liturgical voice.

  “I know the evidence,” snapped Singh irritably. He was already dreading the flight, knowing that his nerves would be put to the test. And this time they were flying a domestic Cambodian airline which didn’t fill him with great confidence either.

  “Why do we have to go to Siem Reap anyway? Why couldn’t you just have them arrested and shipped back?” asked Singh in a querulous voice.

  “Best not to leave something like this in the hands of others. We know the case – and them – best.”

  Singh remarked with his usual perspicuity, “You’re worried they’ll pay off the cops and slip across the border?”

  “Why take the risk?”

  It was a fair point. This case had generated enough negative publicity. The newspapers had started to refer to the Cambodian police’s ‘revolving door policy’ when it came to suspects. It was probably best to avoid any further public relations disasters. Sovann and her husband had already shown themselves willing to pay to avoid trouble. It was sensible that the only two policemen in Cambodia that they personally knew to be incorruptible be in at the end.

  “Why do I have to come?” The fat man acknowledged to himself that he sounded like a whiny child.

  “You’re still jointly in charge of this investigation,” pointed out Menhay, leading the way across the tarmac to where the plane was parked. “We wouldn’t want to upset Adnan Muhammad.”

  Singh didn’t bother to respond. If it wasn’t for him, Sovann would have been charged at least a week ago and a lot of trouble since might have been avoided. He was fairly sure that Menhay had been conscious of that irony as he brought up Singh’s notional place in the investigative hierarchy. Anyway, if it was only a question of annoying the man from the UN, they would have both opted to leave the inspector behind. Adnan had been furious that, yet again, they had arrested the wrong person – the Frenchman – and then had to exonerate him of Huon’s killing.

  “Actually, I just want you to be convinced that she did it,” explained the colonel. “Besides, I don’t like my deputies,” he added with a wry smile.

  “I wish Chhean was coming along,” said Singh, determined to preserve his melancholy mood by seeking clouds instead of silver linings.

  “No budget. And the suspects speak English so you don’t need a translator,” replied Menhay, fastening his seat belt loosely. Singh watched with dismay and then fixed his own as tightly as possible, neatly bisecting his belly into two wobbly halves. Menhay watched him quizzically but Singh didn’t care. Better safe than sorry.

  “And you will have a chance to see Angkor Wat!”

  “I prefer Angkor beer,” growled the Singaporean.

  The Cambodian, if his lowered brow was evidence, had not taken kindly to this lack of respect for the ruins regularly acknowledged to be one of the wonders of the world. Singh changed the subject to mollify him. “Are you going to charge Gaudin with attempted murder?”

  “Not sure – I thought I would let the excitement die down and then see if I can let him go. He won’t try again. We owe him too – he frightened Ta Ieng into telling us what he knew.”

  Singh was grateful for the compassionate streak exhibited by the colonel. He didn’t look like he had a softer side with his sunglasses, sideburns and surly expression. But he did. Just a big teddy bear like me, thought Singh, repressing a giggle.

  The plane was taxi-ing down the runway and Singh searched desperately for a topic that would take his mind off the impending gravity-defying moment.

  “I was sure I was right,” he remarked hastily. “About the mistaken identity. You know, that Gaudin’s hired assassin killed the wrong man.”

  “It was a good theory,” agreed the colonel in a soothing tone.

  “It happens all the time!” insisted Singh, annoyed at the colonel’s mildly patronising tone. “Just look at your serial killer. That’s what gave me the idea in the first place.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Chhean hasn’t reported back? She’s been preoccupied, I suppose.” The plane was lifting off, the entire fuselage shuddering with the physical effort. Singh was sure he should have taken a taxi – or maybe a boat down the Tonle Sap – to Siem Reap. Who was afraid of bandits and landmines anyway? He continued quickly, “Apparently the serial killer got one of the identities wrong…the tenth victim, I think.”

  Menhay was staring at Singh intensely, waiting for him to continue.

  “The victim was someone with the same name as a notorious Khmer Rouge commander – but the fellow who got killed was just a farmer.” The fat man shook his head. “It’s typical of these vigilante types – always trying to find short cuts to justice. Eventually, they kill the wrong guy and that’s when they realise why there are cops and lawyers, judges and juries…it’s to prevent this sort of mistake. We might look ridiculous for having arrested half of Phnom Penh for the murder of Huon and then releasing them one by one. But at least we didn’t put a bullet in the wrong suspect!”

  He turned to look at his travelling companion. Menhay was as white as a sheet. Singh felt smug – it appeared he wasn’t the only one afraid of flying.

  He sought comfort from the newspaper but the lead article was on th
e widespread contamination of the Cambodian countryside with landmines and unexploded ordnance.

  “Is Siem Reap safe?” he demanded, pointing to a map which suggested that the area around the city centre was still dangerous. He might dread an eventual autopsy by Dr Maniam but he didn’t want to be in too many pieces to rule out the possibility.

  Menhay turned to look at him with reddened eyes. “Siem Reap? Yes, quite safe – the nearest landmine fields are about fifty kilometres towards the Thai border.”

  “Remind me to stay in town then,” said Singh grimly, folding his arms across his chest as if he was trying to hold his blubbery mass together.

  Menhay shrugged with the indifference of one of life’s soldiers. “I don’t know…I’ve always thought it would be a good way to go.”

  “Rather you than me,” muttered Singh.

  “Don’t worry. I know the area so you should be safe.”

  “How come?”

  “My home village is just outside Siem Reap, towards Poipet near the Thai border.”

  “Maybe you’ll get a chance to visit,” said Singh optimistically. He was feeling better now that they were airborne and the skies were clear.

  There was a quick but firm shake of the head from the other man. “It’s been abandoned. Khmer Rouge mined the area during their retreat in ‘79. The only people who go there now are from bomb disposal units.”

  Singh scowled and then clutched at the arm rests as the plane banked. Making small talk in Cambodia really was well nigh impossible.

  ♦

  It was with immense disappointment that they were told that the Armstrongs were out. Singh, gazing around the elegant lobby, found it difficult to believe that anyone would choose to leave the Raffles. Say what you liked about the Armstrongs, they enjoyed nestling in the lap of luxury. Menhay was equally sceptical that they were out because he prowled through the hotel, walking around the pool and gardens, glaring at diners in the expensive restaurants and sitting moodily at the bar watching the denizens come and go. To Singh’s agreeable surprise, he eventually consented to have a beer. As they sipped Angkor beer in sullen silence, they had their first breakthrough. A bellhop sidled over and asked if they were looking for the Armstrongs. Singh nodded while Menhay perfected the glare he had been practising all morning.