by James Newman
At the station Joe was photographed, fingerprinted and then led down to a detention room. Two other prisoners were inside the cell. They spoke in a strange low-pitched language. Probably Burmese refuges trying to make some money working over the border. They ignored Joe and he returned the compliment.
Several hours passed. Joe paced the cell. He tried sitting in various positions. In the end he slept huddled in a corner. It was blank dreamless sleep. He woke up to find one of the Burmese with his hand in his pocket. The other Burmese rushed around and grabbed his hands and held him.
They attacked.
Joe kicked at the first refugee and managed to land one hit. The rest of his blows were blocked. It was useless. The Burmese punched and Joe blocked. They were powerful. Buried under a pile of blows he heard a Thai voice shouting. The two prisoners backed off. Joe’s lip was cut and he could feel his eye swelling. Confusion and anger filled his mind. The alcohol had worn off leaving in its place a feeling of deep emptiness and despair. His head ached terribly and every muscle in his body was tense and tight. His hands shook. His throat was dry. He could not remember the last time he had ate. And then it came back, the insect, with inspector Rang. The karaoke bar. The beach.
Joe dug inside his jeans pocket. Inside was something very small and rectangular, Joe still had the memory stick. A guard came to the cell and opened the door; he was led back up the stairs and into a room with four chairs, a table, a tape recorder and a television screen. Seated in the room were Rang and another highly decorated officer. Also present was a Thai gentleman, mid-thirties, wearing a black Italian suit and grey shirt and neck tie.
“Sit,” Rang pointed at the chair opposite him and muttered something in Thai into the tape recorder.
“I take it you are aware of the offence?” He asked coldly.
Joe said nothing.
“Then let me show you.” He switched on a computer and then he switched on the monitor screen. The image came alive. It was shot inside Shogun’s mansion. The closed circuit surveillance footage showed Joe walking into the room. He walked over to the desk and opened a drawer. Then he turned around. Shogun could be seen walking into the room. The picture flickered out of focus. “The tape ran out at this point,” he said. “My brother was found today dead, shot to death by a British detective who had hatched a conspiracy plan with two other British men to falsify and claim insurance monies.” Rang toyed with his whisker. “Is that not how it happened?”
“One moment,” the man in the suit put a hand up. His hand was opened palmed. A gesture of peace. “I request five minutes time in private with my client.” He had an air of authority that Rang disliked, but he relented. Joe sensed some history.
“Go ahead,” he said leaving the room with the officer close behind.
The Lawyer was grey of hair with a youthful face. He handed over a business card and laid it face up on the table. His movements were cool and smooth like a Salamander emerging from beneath a shady rock.
“My name is Chalung. There are two types of people in the world. Those that make things happen and those that things happen to. I make things happen to those that things have happened to. Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” Joe smiled.
“There is Thai law and then there is me. I know both. I’m retained by the syndicate. You are working for them, so you are my concern. I don’t lose. I either win or compromise. How did they treat you downstairs?”
“Beaten up by two non-Thais.”
“Good. A bit of brutality always works in our favour in a farang case.” Chalung flipped open his briefcase and took out a point and shoot camera. He clicked off a couple of pictures of Joe’s face. “I’m aware of the situation you are in and have an angle to get you out of it. I have spoken to Wordsworth and the coordinator on my way here. I take it we make a deal. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“Right. On one hand we have a closed circuit camera picture of you inside the mansion. You have a reason to be there, investigating insurance fraud perpetrated by the deceased. On the other hand is the story crafted by the officials. It will take a long time to sort out if we decide to go through due process.”
“Right. All I want to do is walk.”
“I figured that. The police mentioned the deceased had a gun in his hand. Where is that weapon now?”
Joe shook his head. “There are weapons stashed all over the house. It was only a matter of time...”
“You took it with you and lost it. Ok. We have no gun and so no self defence claim. Don’t look too upset, if there was a gun than the police would have removed it from the scene anyway. I am working on the angle that there was no one else there.”
“So what’s the angle?”
“There are many angles and I know all of them and each one reflects badly on officer Rang and his dead brother. The deeper they look into this, the worse it reflects on them. They do not want to take this to court, it would all come out in the wash and Rang would probably lose his position.”
Rang entered the room followed by his colleague. They both sat down. Rang turned the tape recorder on looked at his notes. He watched as Chalung turned it back off again. The lawyer smiled slowly at each officer in turn.
“Gentleman, we all know where this is going so why don’t we cut the bullshit and talk about the numbers. Rang, you have enough blood on your hands already and I am surprised that you have the audacity to pull this man in. In fact, I am surprised that you are still at your post. Thailand is changing, Ko Samui is changing.”
“You always were a little piece of shit Chalung. Made yourself rich by protecting farang.”
“Thank you,” he replied, “but I am a piece of shit beneath the buffalo’s feet, the buffalo will trip and fall on this piece of shit. For this piece of shit is slippery.” Chalung brushed his hand through his hair and continued. “Now, my client offers to reward you with one million baht to cover the costs of your investigation, which, let’s face it, will lead to you hanging yourselves.” The smile remained as if chiselled on his face, “Do you agree with these terms?”
“One million is chicken feed. One million is bullshit.”
“Well, that sort of money could put your daughter through college. Think about it.”
“My brother was worth millions.”
“Yes, well the will hasn’t been read. This money is real. It’s what my client is offering. It is money on the table. If you want to fight this thing, well, I have friends in media, I have friends in Bangkok. It seems that you have a mountain to climb, Rang. My advice is not to climb it.”
Chalung looked at Rang and held his glance until the policeman began to shake nervously.
“You think I don’t have friends? You think I don’t have connections, you fucking lawyers all the same think you can change the system.”
“You crooks are all the same, you think you can change the law. One day the law will be the system. It is my dream that one day corruption will be part of the system rather than being the entire system. My client had a gun pointed at him by a known criminal. That criminal would have killed him if a third party had not intervened.” Chalung opened his hands and then closed them suddenly. “It is a nonsense case and we are offering you money to see it as such. Bail one million. One million baht to let this innocent man free. I hate to think what would happen if he didn’t have London behind him on this.”
Rang turned the tape recorder back on and spoke. “I will detain the prisoner until further evidence is gathered. I will keep you up to date Mr Chalung.”
The officer, who had remained silent through the interview, took Joe by the arm and led him back downstairs to the detention room. He understood little English and having just endured the arguments in English was feeling confused. Rang had intended to keep him out of the picture. There were a million reasons why he would want to.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE NEXT morning a junior officer opened the door to the detention centre and Joe was led upstairs to where Ch
alung sat smoking a cigar at the front desk. He was blowing smoke rings in the direction of the desk sergeant, who upset by the blatant disrespect, knew better than to complain.
“They took the million, I have paid this out of my own pocket, but London reassures me that they will pay back the bail plus my time and expenses within two weeks. You are free to go Mr Joe.” Chalung smiled through the blue cigar smoke. “We cut the deal.”
“How did you do it?”
“It’s what I do. Keep hold of my card, you may need it again. Also we took the liberty of collecting your case.” The lawyer reached under the desk and picked up Joe’s Samsonite. He placed it on the desk. “Everything should be there.”
“Does the syndicate think of everything?”
“Risk limitation, Joe. You are free to go back to London and file your report. Let’s just look at this as a job well done. The syndicate has had to pay out a few thousand dollars and will not be paying out for the Italian. The corrupt policeman gets enough money to keep him happy. Everybody is happy in the land of smiles, Joe.”
“It’s over. It is that simple.”
“From where I’m standing there seems to be no more problems. The assured keep the money from the first claim and Wordsworth quietly denies the second.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“It is what we do.”
Joe shook the lawyer’s cold hand and walked out of the station. Outside the sun blinded Joe for a moment. He took a motorbike taxi to the train station and walked up the steps to the railway station. He smiled at the ticket man.
“Bangkok Express,” he said.
TWENTY-NINE
RANG PICKED up the telephone and grunted into the receiver. It was Shogun’s lawyer. He stood with the telephone in his hand listening for several minutes. His face twitched. “Nothing... You mean he has left us nothing?...Who...Jinks the boy?....But he...His heirs...Shit...” He put down the telephone. He had left everything to the boy who had died in the line of duty. The boy’s parents would receive everything that Shogun had stolen. Maybe they would come to live on the island, or more than likely they would sell everything and then lose the money gambling and helping out old friends. Rang slammed the telephone down on the desk. He punched the wall. There was a bottle in the drawer of his desk. He opened the desk and then opened the bottle, he drank half. He felt better. He undressed. His police uniform he folded and carefully hung in the wardrobe. He dressed in jeans and a polo-shirt. He looked at his face in the mirror. He took off his sunglasses. He drank the remaining half of the bottle and then he took a razor blade and began to shave off his moustache. He got a pair of small nail-scissors and cut off his whisker. He found a cigarette and lit it. He unclipped his gun from the holster and placed it in a smaller holster that he concealed under his belt line. He slung a courier bag over his shoulder. He went downstairs. His daughter was sat on the sofa reading an English language book. He walked up to her and then crouched to her level, breathing whiskey fumes over her face.
“I’m doing this for you and for your mother,” he said. “We have always been a poor family. I have tried my best and I have failed. I have one last chance to redeem myself. To give this small family what it deserves. Do you understand Mintra?”
“Father why are you going out dressed like that. You always wear your uniform.”
“Please. Do not ask questions now, my darling. I am going fishing,”
“Is it to do with uncle?”
“He is not your uncle anymore, Mintra.”
She gave her father a confused smile and returned to her studies. Her father walked over to a filing cabinet and opened a drawer. Inside he felt the shape of his Glock. He looked over his shoulder. He slipped the gun into his messenger bag and zipped it shut. He took the speedboat back to the mainland and made it to the station in time for the train. He jumped aboard and found an empty compartment. He sat and waited. He opened his bag and felt the gun between his fingers.
He felt both calm and alert.
THIRTY
JOE BOUGHT a first class ticket for a compartment to the rear of the train. The train vibrated and then lurched forward towards the capital. The journey would take several hours. Enough time to write the report. He took out a piece of writing paper and began to make some notes. Notes that would turn into a report that would eventually be read in London by an Underwriter who would skim through with minor interest, and then put the report to one side without too much thought. Then that underwriter would have a three-pint-lunch and a tuna-fish sandwich. The story was of course incredible. He left out the smaller details. After a few pages, Joe put it down on the seat and the paper flew out of the window. That was why he had the netbook he reminded himself. He opened his case and took out the Sony and turned it on. The blank screen was just that. Joe watched the scenery rush past outside the window. Cattle egrets sat atop of buffalos picking at the insects that fixed themselves to the docile beasts. Children worked in the fields, picking fruit from the trees. Now and again a small village flashed past, chicken and geese pecked in the road. His mobile telephone rang.
“This is Joe here.”
“Joe the superstar investigator?”
Joe recognized Hale’s voice from Sukhumvit. “Hey thanks for helping out.”
“Congratulations. I would smile, but it hurts. I took a slug for you pal, one day maybe you can return the favour.”
Joe asked him what he meant and Haled filled him in on his trip to Ko Samui, the doctor, the mansion. “How have they fixed you up?”
“Gantira got me out of the place while Shogun was meditating. Made it to the hospital. Stitches. Internal bleeding. Missed the major organs. The bastard didn’t kill me. Sometimes I wish he did. I haven’t had a drink since...”
Joe felt a weight come crashing over his shoulder. The netbook fell from his lap and landed on the compartment floor. Above him Rang stood with his teeth bared and shoulders tense. He had the Glock 17 in his mitt. Joe acted fast and kicked at the man’s legs. He stumbled and Joe made it to his feet and went for the gun, it fired and a shot blasted out the window. Joe brought a knee up to Rang’s groin and his grip loosened on the Glock. Joe grabbed at it and Rang grabbed his arm. They wrestled with the gun, arms out of the window. A kick to Rang’s leg made him release his grip and the weapon fell to the tracks below. Joe remembered the story about Rang’s wife, the accident. He hit Rang with a right hook. The investigator swung back and Joe ducked under Rang’s arm. Joe rolled out of the compartment.
He stood. His mind raced as he ran along the train, past bemused passengers. He looked over his shoulder, Rang was closing the gap between them. Joe kept running until he could run no further. He had reached the end of the train. He turned with his back to the track, either side the doors were wide open. Joe could see the track whistling past. Rang came crashing into him. He wrestled Joe to the side of the carriage and Joe felt his body slip through the door he grabbed onto the carriage and began to pull himself back into the train. Joe held onto the carriage, his legs dangling out of the train, Rang above him. His feet scuffed the track. “You still miss her don’t you Rang?”
“Who?”
“Your wife, you still miss her. A foreigner didn’t kill her Rang, your brother did. Your brother did it to get back at you Rang, and now he’s dead too.”
“You lie!”
“It’s the truth,” Joe grabbed onto something, it was Rang’s ankle, he pulled himself up and put Rang off balance. He fell to the compartment floor and Joe got to his feet. “That’s right he killed her and then he made you do the dirty work for him. How much did you get in the will, Rang?”
Rang stood up and put up his guard, he hit Joe with a left that seemed to come from nowhere, Joe countered with a jab to the ribs. They were both sweating, and took their time to find the right delivery. Joe shuffled around so that Rang’s back was facing the tracks below. “Who are you fighting this fight for Rang? Your brother? Your wife?”
Rang hit Joe on the chin and he stumbl
ed back. Rang reached under his shirt and pulled out the second gun from the holster and pointed it at Joe. “It’s a matter of face, Khun Joe. If you hadn’t come here then none of this would have happened. Say goodbye to Thailand, Khun Joe.”
Joe could see the tunnel coming. He needed it. He had to stall. “You fire that gun and you will never see your daughter again, Rang. They will give you the injection Rang, the big sleep.”
“They will never find you nor me,” Rang’s finger tensed on the trigger.
The tunnel was getting closer. Joe counted. One. Rang’s face was furious as he stared directly at Joe. Two. The tunnel grew larger, closer. Three. Blackness. Joe surged forward in a blind offensive he threw himself at Rang, a shot rang out. Four. The express train was inside the tunnel now and Joe punched blindly. Five. He heard the sound of a man falling, another shot, and then the sound of a body hitting the ground at speed. Six. The train came out of the other side of the tunnel. Joe was alone in the compartment. Seven. The sound of metal on metal beneath the Bangkok Express.
THIRTY-ONE
JOE WALKED slowly through Hualamphong station and onto the busy Bangkok streets. Hundreds of motor cars all travelled in different directions. Stalls stood here and there selling cans of soda and snacks. The sky was a mixture of reds and blues and crimson, the trains clunked to a stop at their final destination. He hailed a taxi and took it to the Business Inn. He walked upstairs to the same room he had stayed in three days back. He opened his Samsonite and took the memory stick from his pocket and inserted it into his netbook. He listened to the recording and smiled. The doctor’s confession. There was a knock at the door, he opened it; the bell-boy had a letter in his hand. Joe tipped the boy and opened the letter. It was the confession in writing. Hale must have sent him a copy. Joe phoned downstairs to the travel agency and had them arrange the flight. He slept like a baby.
The next morning Joe packed his case. He was methodical and precise. Not a single movement was wasted. He thought about how Gantira would have packed, what she would have taken, what she would have left behind. He walked down to the reception and paid his bill. The receptionist told him to come back anytime, his room would be waiting. He walked out onto Sukhumvit road. The heat was offensive. He stood on the curb and hailed a yellow and green. The beat up Nissan pulled over and he stepped inside. The air-conditioning hit him with a wave of relief. The driver was dark-skinned and serious.
