A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  “I called the driver for them this morning,” he whispered.

  Singh’s heart sank – had they made a dash for Thailand?

  Money made borders porous in countries like Cambodia. And he didn’t want to chase them through any minefields.

  “They went to Angkor Wat for the day,” the bellhop continued to the relief of the two policemen.

  Singh nodded his thanks and the young man, dressed in that fashion best known as hotel-exotic, crept away.

  The inspector raised his hand to order another beer. It appeared that they would spend the afternoon at the hotel waiting for their prey to return. He could think of worse places to be and worse things to do.

  Menhay, however, waved the waiter away. “We will go looking for them,” he announced, slipping easily into action man mode.

  Singh demurred hastily. “What’s the point? We’ll probably miss them if these Angkor ruins are as extensive as I’ve been led to believe. Why can’t we just wait here?” He looked hopefully at the barman, who was hovering within earshot, uncertain whether his summons or his dismissal had precedence.

  “We will go looking for them,” insisted Menhay. “I will leave a few policemen here to wait.”

  If he meant the dodgy examples of Cambodian policing that had driven them from the airport, Singh was not optimistic. But the colonel’s mouth was set in a stubborn line and the fat man was mildly curious to see these great monoliths of Angkor. Especially if the alternative was spending a long afternoon with the bad-tempered Cambodian. His sour face would curdle beer, let alone milk. The inspector had no idea what was bothering his counterpart, but he was certainly anything but cordial company.

  The Raffles provided a car, no doubt to expedite the departure of the threatening Colonel Menhay. It meant, at least, the comfort of a limousine with a functioning air conditioner and decent suspension although the roads in Siem Reap, lined with luxury hotels as the Cambodians sought to monetise their past, were in rather better condition than those in Phnom Penh. In a relatively short while, they were dropped off at one of the entrances.

  Angkor Wat truly was stupendous. In the clear afternoon light, the grey stupas rose out of the horizon like the remnants of a vast lost civilisation, which indeed they were. The walkway was crowded with tourists and street vendors but for once Singh felt a sense of complete isolation, engulfed by the great buildings in the distance. It really was a shame that two-dimensional images of Angkor were used to advertise every product in Cambodia, thought Singh wistfully. It did a disservice to the reality.

  As they got closer, Menhay snapped, “Stop staring at the buildings and look out for our suspects!”

  Singh looked around guiltily. He had been so enamoured of the ruins he had forgotten the mission. He began to scan the faces, saying as he did so, “They must be inside – and anyway, the pair of them together are unmissable.”

  “Unless they see us first,” responded Menhay darkly.

  They were soon inside the temple compound. The grey and white buildings were golden where they caught the light. Flashes of colour, the bright orange of monks’ robes, created a delightful counterpoint. Singh ran his hand over a cool grey statue, admiring the peaceful, full-lipped stone face. He remembered walking through the museum and being likened to the elephant god sculpture by Chhean. It made such a difference to see the figures in their original setting.

  Menhay was striding ahead purposefully and Singh hurried to catch up. He seemed to know his way around the compound so the inspector resigned himself to following meekly in his footsteps, occasionally glancing around for a sign of the large American and his delicate wife. They wandered into a shady grove where nature was battling to reclaim Angkor. Singh stared at the enormous roots emerging through crevices, grasping entire structures with greedy pale limbs while root buttresses dominated adjacent walls. The inspector shivered. In the half light, the trunks looked covetous, as if they hankered after the spaces occupied by the buildings and would not be content until nothing was left of the vast human imprint on the landscape. He was so lost in thought that when Menhay put a hand on his shoulder, he almost yelped out loud. Fortunately for his relationship with the Cambodian, he managed to suppress the sound. The colonel nodded in the direction of a small alcove ringed with carved heads, their expressions fractious and unforgiving. The American couple was sitting within. She had her head on his shoulder. They were talking quietly – probably seeking some shade and rest.

  Menhay didn’t hesitate. He strode over, the fat man hard on his heels. Singh did not miss the quick action of his right hand – the colonel had unbuttoned the holster of his gun. The inspector gritted his teeth. There had been too much violence already. He didn’t want more – didn’t want any blood around Sovann. He reminded himself that she had stabbed an unconscious man to death – this was not the time for some dormant masculine protective instinct to kick in. Besides, she had her enormous husband to look after her.

  “Mrs Armstrong?”

  They turned in surprise but without fear. Neither of them had heard the approach, the soft earth had muffled their footsteps.

  “Colonel Menhay?” Sovann spoke and there was no questioning her surprise at seeing them.

  “What do you want? Why are you here?” It was her husband who realised the implication of their unexpected presence. He stood forward so that he was shielding his wife with his body.

  She stepped up so that she was side by side with her husband.

  “There was an eyewitness, Sovann,” said Singh, unable to hide the sadness in his voice. “He saw you go into the room where he knew Huon was unconscious. He also saw the knife. It’s too late for any more denials.” He was facing Sovann, speaking directly to her, ignoring the hulking figure of her husband.

  Her thin frame could not withstand such body blows. She sat down on a rock and folded her arms tightly.

  “That’s a lie,” said Jeremy Armstrong roughly but uncon-vincingly.

  “Ta Ieng was the witness. You paid him to keep quiet,” snapped Menhay.

  There was a small smile from Sovann as she came to terms with her fate. “It doesn’t seem to have worked.”

  Jeremy Armstrong was still standing, a tall man with a broad chest and a large stomach. Why were Americans so big? wondered Singh. Was it all those hamburgers with cheese?

  “I did it,” stammered the American, stepping forward a stride.

  The colonel stepped forward as well as if they were playing a childish game of chicken. Despite being a foot shorter than Armstrong, he conveyed menace. It was the khaki uniform and the aggressive expression. Not to mention the gun. “If you waste any more of my time, you’ll spend as much time in prison as your wife.”

  Sovann put her hand on her husband’s arm. Although it was a light touch, he subsided immediately. “Enough,” she said quietly. She turned to the policemen and faced them squarely. Singh was struck again by her preternatural calm. “You’re quite right. I killed Huon. I went to see him. I took a knife. For self-defence, I thought. When I got to his room, he was lying on the ground unconscious.” She paused and took a deep breath, her gaze failing to meet theirs for the first time. “I stabbed him while he was lying there.”

  “Honey, no…”

  She sounded like a maths teacher admonishing a child over the quality of his homework when she spoke. “Enough, Jeremy. My fingerprints were on the knife.”

  Menhay walked over to her. He grasped her by the arm, firmly but not aggressively. The other hand was hanging loosely by his side but Singh sensed that he was coiled as tight as a spring. The colonel expected trouble from Jeremy Armstrong. Singh turned to the couple. They were still staring at each other but he was caught by their expressions – this was no fond farewell. Her eyes were trained on him like a laser beam and he had the hangdog look of a puppy, albeit a large one, who had just been kicked by a much-loved master. Their expressions were a conversation in another language. One for whom he did not have an interpreter.

  The sun was
now low in the sky and the last rays were bright and painful in his eyes. The light turned the moss-covered stones a vivid green. The statues seemed to have their blank stone eyes trained on him, expressions ranging from disgust to anger. What did they know that he didn’t? He turned his attention to Sovann Armstrong. For a cold-blooded, self-confessed killer, she radiated an inner peace. He sensed again that core strength he had first observed when they were unlikely luncheon companions at the war crimes tribunal canteen.

  For a moment, under the shade of the encroaching trees at Angkor Wat, time stood still. And then a picture formed in Singh’s mind. A picture of what might have actually happened that night.

  Nineteen

  “Stop!” barked Singh. “This isn’t right.”

  Menhay didn’t even turn around, although his back stiffened. “We don’t have time for this, Singh.”

  “Yes, we do. I know you don’t want to make a mistake any more than I do.”

  “A mistake? You think this is the mistake? There are others far worse.”

  Singh ignored this detour into the hierarchy of errors. His whole attention was focused on the couple before him. “I need five minutes, Menhay…”

  “I don’t want to wait – please let’s go. I’ve said I killed him.”

  Menhay’s face, usually an ugly mask, was just ugly. However, Sovann’s interruption seemed to have a contrary effect on him. The colonel was nothing if not bloody-minded. He spat on the ground in disgust but said, “All right. You want five minutes, you’ve got five minutes.” He pulled his gun out of the holster and waved it at the Armstrongs. “But no funny business.”

  This would be a good scene for when they made a movie of his life, decided Singh. It was very atmospheric with the gun-toting colonel, the beautiful woman and the ruins of Angkor Wat as a backdrop. On the other hand, it had probably been done before.

  He addressed his next question to Jeremy Armstrong. “You insist that you did it? You killed Cheah Huon?”

  “We’ve been through this already,” grumbled Menhay. “Don’t encourage him to confess again.”

  The big man ignored the policeman and nodded slowly. Sovann’s fingers tightened on his arm. Her knuckles were white. She must have been hurting him with her grip but he gave no sign.

  “How?” asked Singh.

  “I followed Sovann when she went to see Huon. I didn’t know where she was going but she had been acting really weird lately and I was worried. I saw her stop by the kitchen and pick up the knife. I stayed right back because I didn’t want to be spotted.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sovann would have stopped me from going with her. My wife – well, she can be pretty independent sometimes.” He smiled down at her and all the love in the world was contained in the moment. “She’d told me about Huon being the murderer of her dad.” He raised a helpless hand. “I guess she thought Huon was more likely to tell her the truth if she was alone.”

  There was a silence broken only by the gentle roiling cry of an early nightjar.

  Armstrong took up his tale again without prompting. “I followed her into the room.”

  “Why didn’t Ta Ieng see you?” asked Menhay sharply.

  “I don’t know – he must have left by then or gone further into the room where he was hiding.”

  “What was Sovann doing?” This was Singh. His only interest was the sequence of events in the room, the sequence that had led to the death of a man.

  “She was kneeling by Huon, crying her eyes out.”

  “He was dead?”

  “To be truthful, that’s what I thought at first. When I felt for a pulse, I realised that he’d just passed out – I didn’t have a clue why.”

  “Ta Ieng hit him,” explained Singh helpfully.

  “I tried to get Sovann to calm down – she was almost hysterical. And then Huon started to stir. He was coming round.” Armstrong was no longer looking at any of them. He was staring into the distance as if he was watching a film trailer and describing the plot to his companions.

  “And then I stabbed him,” said Sovann calmly as if she was remarking on the weather. She slipped her arm through her husband’s, a gesture of reassurance that she was strong enough to take the consequences of her confession. It struck the inspector in that moment how much she loved her husband. She was not as obvious in her affections as the big American, but her feelings ran deep for the man who had rescued her from her past. Singh felt a stab of some emotion. Was it jealousy…or regret?

  “And then I stabbed him,” corrected her husband.

  Menhay snorted his disbelief.

  Singh didn’t blame him. The inspector persisted despite the absurdity of the situation, once again addressing his question to Jeremy Armstrong. “Why?”

  “I could see that Sovann would never be able to rest while this man was alive. There was no way he would be tried for what he had done to her father. The policeman – when Sovann made her report – treated her like she was mad. The war crimes tribunal is only interested in the big shots. Huon was literally getting away with murder – just like Ta leng.” He was rehearsing old arguments about the tribunal but he sounded like he meant it. “The knife was lying by Huon – Sovann must have put it down or dropped it. I saw Sovann’s tears – I don’t know what came over me – I…I killed him.”

  “What about the fingerprints?” Menhay was shouting now.

  Armstrong hung his head. “I wiped the knife handle clean…and then wrapped Huon’s fingers around the hilt. I had this wild idea the death might be taken as suicide or an accident. Later, when I calmed down, I realised it was unlikely.”

  “What about Sovann’s prints?” asked Singh.

  “My fingerprints, my murder,” said Sovann adamantly.

  “I agree with the lady,” muttered the colonel, watching with annoyance as his murder investigation turned into a farce.

  “Did you leave her alone in there?” Singh was adept at ignoring the Cambodian policeman when it suited him.

  “I went ahead to the door – to check that the coast was clear. Sovann must have handled the knife then.”

  “And why would she do that?” asked Menhay in a tone of extreme resignation.

  “I don’t know.” The big man was almost in tears. “To take the rap for me?”

  ♦

  The sun was sinking rapidly over the horizon. The stupas of Angkor Wat were glowing angry red in the light. Blood, thought Singh. Angkor Wat, awash in blood just like the whole damn country. He knew what he had to do, had known since a few minutes ago when it became clear to him what had happened. But he didn’t like it – didn’t want to do it – knew he would get no thanks from those he was trying to help. Should that stand in his way? It was difficult to know. He glanced across at Menhay. A man of certainties. A policeman to the core, doing his job with a single-minded tenacity while all around him people sold their pride, their honour, even their children, for a few extra American dollars. But he had suggested that he would let the Frenchman go – Menhay had the ability to be benevolent – while what Singh was about to do was cruel. Or was it? Perhaps it was also just. He was a policeman, decided the fat man ruefully. He would err on the side of justice. And that meant that no one should be allowed to take the blame for a murder they didn’t commit.

  “Sovann?”

  She was watching him. The fear was on the surface, visible in the rigidity of her body and the paleness of her skin, like an antelope catching sight of a lion in the bushes and too frightened to run.

  “Sovann, your husband was a B-52 bomber pilot before he met you. He flew dozens of sorties over Cambodia.”

  He had Menhay to thank that he avoided injury. With a loud scream of “No,” Armstrong launched himself at the fat man. The colonel stepped neatly in the way and tripped him. The big man came crashing down like old wood in a rainforest. He turned over but stayed down. He whispered, “No, please…no,” but it was already too late.

  Singh had refocused his attention on the woman the m
inute it was apparent that he was not going to have his head knocked in. Menhay had his gun trained on the prone figure.

  “What did you say?”

  He almost had to read her lips, her words were spoken so quietly.

  “He was a pilot during the ‘secret war’.”

  Sovann would not look at her husband directly but she addressed her next question to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was afraid of hurting you.” He paused. “I was afraid of losing you.”

  “What about the people you hurt? My people? My family?”

  “I’ve worked my whole life to make amends…”

  When he had spoken to Singh earlier in the week, Armstrong had made the same argument. He hadn’t sounded convinced then and he didn’t sounded convinced now that his reparation was sufficient or complete. What a burden of guilt for a man to carry, thought Singh sadly, his own shoulders drooping under the weight of what he had done.

  The harsh cry of a night animal reflected the agony of the couple before him. It was time to close this case. He asked quietly, “Who killed Cheah Huon?”

  “He did,” said Sovann, her voice loud and clear. “My husband murdered Cheah Huon.” Her rejection of her husband was complete and the whimper from the crumpled figure on the ground suggested he knew it.

  “Fingerprints?” asked Menhay.

  “While he was looking out of the door, I wrapped my hands around the hilt,” explained Sovann.

  “Why?” Even Menhay was not immune to the stark emotion of the protagonists. His voice was husky as he asked the question.

  “It was my fault that he killed Huon. He did it for me – knowing how I would suffer if the man who killed my father was alive and free. The police would not rest until they found Huon’s killer – the tribunal is just too important for a murder to remain unsolved in its midst. Because of my police report, I knew the trail would eventually lead to me – to us.”