Gaslighting (DP, DIC03)

by Will Patching

  The hotel owner frowned, deflated, his anger replaced by confusion. ‘What the hell – ?’

  Lee interrupted, explaining, ‘In that room.’ He nodded toward the door to the master bedroom. ‘He’s dead.’ Lee allowed himself a moment, savouring the other man’s discomfort. ‘And I’m afraid your hotel is now the subject of a major international murder investigation.’

  His lips stretched into a mirthless smile as he watched Hughes slump on to a sofa. There were already three police cars and an ambulance outside the hotel entrance and Lee knew the man would be infuriated – he was always quick to anger, the result of hot farang blood coursing through his Thai-American veins. A very rich man and the type who thought he could get what he wanted with bluster, bullying and bribery. A common theme among the exceedingly wealthy everywhere, but more so in the developing world, where corruption thrived.

  Lee could see the puzzlement in the hotel owner’s eyes as he glanced from the bedroom door back to the detective, then a spark of hope. ‘How can you be sure it was murder at this stage? Perhaps a contribution to police funds would help your investigation reach a speedy conclusion...’

  ‘His throat was cut. So deeply his head was almost severed.’ Lee’s voice hardened as he added, ‘We’ve ruled out suicide Mr Hughes, so don’t even think of asking. I don’t care about your hotel’s reputation. I only care about the truth.’ He strolled to the door. ‘So, my men will be interviewing all your guests and staff.’

  Hughes groaned and put his head in his hands.

  Lee gestured to a constable waiting outside. ‘The bedroom is to remain sealed until the Medical Examiner arrives.’

  ‘Lee?’

  He paused, one hand on the door, turning to Hughes, suddenly sickened by the perfume and overstated opulence.

  ‘You said he swallowed his own penis?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He compressed his mouth into a lipless line. ‘You see, his genitals were hacked off and stuffed down his throat.’

  ***

  ‘Sis?’

  ‘Jesus Johnny, it’s after 2am. Don’t you ever sleep?’ Kate O’Sullivan pushed the phone between her ear and the pillow, closing her eyes again.

  ‘Oh, is it? Er... Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been reading some news and stuff from Thailand. You know that guy you were doing the article on?’

  ‘Uh? What?’ Her brain started to fire up, though her eyes still rebelled, remaining shut tight.

  ‘Simm. The internet guy. Big businessman you asked me to look into.’

  Her brain sparked into life. Her eyes now open, she was almost fully alert.

  ‘He’s dead, Sis.’

  Wide-awake now.

  ‘Dead?’

  Shit.

  ‘Yup. Murdered. Looks like you lost out. Is all your work down the drain?’

  Kate thought for a moment and sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘Oh, I dunno Johnny. Can I come over and see what you’ve got?’ It would only take her ten minutes driving on the city roads at this time of night.

  ‘Sure thing.’ She could hear his willing smile on the phone, and loved him for it.

  ‘Give me twenty minutes. And Johnny – see what else you can find.’

  Maybe. Just maybe.

  If she was quick she might salvage her story. Possibly a special obituary rather than the pre-prepared file copy if she could get it to the Financial Times before anyone else. She hurried to dress, her brain sparking and jumping as she tested angles, themes, the words bubbling in her head.

  Bad news?

  No, she thought. There’s no such thing for a journalist – other people’s misfortune paid the bills. She perked up as the thoughts buzzed, giving comfort as her ancient Beetle fired into life.

  Kate hummed to herself as she set off round London’s South Circular, on the road that would lead to pain, misery and death.

  ***

  Police Chief Lee straightened up from the washbasin, water dripping from his face. He rarely inspected himself, but this morning he could not help but notice the deep lines and dark bags sagging below his eyes. His skin was yellow tinged and he looked sickly under the harsh fluorescent light.

  Two shifts, back to back, and no end in sight. Twenty hours solid already. Several hours ago he had been about to leave after the usual frantic runaround that was his life with the Royal Thai Police.

  And then a fat American tourist almost lost his head and the shit-showering fan went into overdrive.

  First off, there was his boss, the Commissioner. An over-promoted moron.

  Then his boss, the politician. An incompetent moron.

  As if that was not enough, the Americans saddled up.

  Just before midnight the head of the local Consulate rode in, dumped on him, screaming about inadequate policing, appalling hotel security, ongoing threats to US nationals and how the Thai tourist trade would ‘dry up over-fucking-night’ unless Lee got his ‘ass in gear’. He wanted answers, a report, right now, no excuses.

  And of course, they had appointed an adviser to ‘liaise’ with him.

  CIA? FBI? Special forces? Another overweight American who had impressed Lee with his deeply insightful comments on Thai policing – brutal, corrupt and prehistoric summed up the man’s considered opinion.

  Truly a diplomat.

  Lee had taken it all and, alone at last, the ‘adviser’ having left for his beauty sleep, he had let go a sigh, relieved to see the man swagger out of his office – just as the Minister for Tourism had launched himself in, snapping and yapping like a mad dog.

  With so little sleep, the politics dragging hard on him, Chief Lee finally lost it. He stood, slammed the Simm file on his desk and bellowed back at the startled politician, ‘If you would just let me get on with my job I’ll get some results! I know how important this is but I need some time and space to do effective police work.’

  Lee had marched out of his office and headed for the men’s room, leaving the top-ranking cabinet minister lost for words.

  He did not care much for political gamesmanship. With his perfect English, his excellent arrest record combined with a reputation for incorruptibility, he had been wooed by his bosses to take up a top job in Bangkok. He had turned them down; he could not bear the thought of having to deal with men like the minister every day.

  He shrugged and wondered what had happened to the polite traditions of Thailand. Lee shook his head and dried his face. The mirror had no answers, just the sad reality of the toll the job was taking on him. At times like this he wished he was an ordinary detective again.

  Politics.

  He spat into the sink, and let his head droop. Then shook himself. He strolled back to his desk and brought his mind back to the job.

  George Simm was a paedophile. Lee had known it the moment he spoke with the concierge. He had managed to keep that little gem up his sleeve during the last couple of hours. There would be no cover up, not now it was there, in black and white.

  He reread the report. A good job by his team – at least they had been at work while he fielded the political fallout. He scribbled his initials and called his sergeant to distribute the usual copies, not forgetting his liaison officer at the Consulate.

  Lee sat back, watching the wooden blades of the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above his head.

  He let his mind review what he knew.

  A rich businessman, who made his fortune by setting up an internet travel company, arrived on vacation and picked up a vagabond for his first night in the resort. The boy, about eight or nine years old, had sprinted screaming from the hotel, bloody, naked and empty-handed – at least, according to the concierge and taxi drivers parked outside the hotel entrance.

  The motive for the crime was a mystery. The man’s wallet was untouched and stuffed with high denomination dollar bills. The boy was no thief, and Lee believed the concierge had been too terrified and shocked to go near the body. Simm’s Rolex, passport and travellers’ cheques were tucked in his room safe, the door wide open.
>
  So, theft was not the motive.

  Lee had seen many violent deaths over his twenty-year career. Crimes of greed and envy, of passion and jealousy, of hatred and despair, but when his little Indonesian Medical Examiner had confirmed the extent of the neck injury, this one had truly shocked him.

  ‘I have not ever seen a thing like this, Chief. The American has the neck of a water buffalo. His assailant is stronger than any I’ve seen. One cut to the neck.’ His friend had drawn his finger two thirds of the way round his throat. ‘Clean, no sawing and so deep, Chief. The blade carved into the front of his second vertebra. Not possible I think, but it is so.’

  Lee blinked slowly. His ME had never been wrong before, but this seemed unreal. He put a hand on his colleague’s shoulder and looked him directly in the eye. ‘You’re sure, Errnawati? Just one hack of a blade? What, like a Samurai sword?’

  ‘No Chief. A sword strike would damage tissue and bone different. Such impact would shatter or dislocate neck bones. It is not so. The vertebra is scored from a blade, an incredible sharp thing, dragged across it, with no struggle and little movement from Simm.’

  ‘So, our three-hundred-pound victim sat perfectly still while someone tried to behead him with one slashing thrust?’

  ‘Or your killer is so fast the fat man had no time to move or fight. To do this your killer is a strong man who slices buffalo’s neck like melon.’ He paused, screwed his eyes into slits and shuffled around the room. Lee appreciated Errnawati’s intellect so stayed quiet while his colleague continued, his voice sing-songing.

  ‘The neck is hard to cut so clean. Much muscle and sinew hold the head erect. Our American is sitting on sofa like when we find him. Killer is behind and grasps forehead with left hand, slices across exposed neck... Such a strong man... I think you find this killer easy.’ Eyes twinkling now, he grinned at Lee. ‘The man wears underpants outside his trousers!’

  Lee had guffawed at that. His friend often had a wisecrack to lighten things, despite his deadly serious profession.

  With a final shrug Errnawati had left the office chuckling and shaking his head.

  Lee pushed the report away and then leaned back, watching the ceiling fan’s slow progress. Going nowhere, round and round, like this case would if he did not get moving.

  He turned his attention to the concierge. The man was probably guilty of little more than turning a blind eye for a pocketful of dollars. Did he know the boy? Lee wondered. His jaw muscles clenched and unclenched. The concierge was probably not involved – he would surely have hotfooted after the boy if he was. But he was lying, of that much Lee was certain.

  And the boy was not even ten years old. Scrawny and small. Hardly the prime suspect for partially severing the head from a hulk of a man.

  Perhaps it was a relative of the boy? Revenge for the abuse?

  Lee discarded the possibility. A relative who cared would never allow the boy to get involved in such a thing in the first place.

  At times like this Lee pondered on the changes to his country. A peace loving, welcoming, friendly people, living in a land with magical beaches, stunning natural beauty and a wonderful climate.

  And perverts.

  Rich farang who preyed on his young countrymen and women.

  Sex for sale.

  Welcome to Thailand.

  But, for Lee, much worse than the foreigners were his fellow Thais, the greedy sickos who sold their sons, mothers and daughters for a fistful of cash.

  The fan continued its journey to nowhere, barely stirring the humid air in his room. Lee closed his eyes and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. He felt rumpled and uncomfortable, wanted to shower and change out of his uniform but had no time to go home. Although he was a man who detested strong colognes and spurned aftershave, he was fastidious about his personal hygiene. His back teeth ground in frustration – this whole affair was getting to him already.

  Ignoring thoughts of a shower and his bed, he tried to think rationally and concentrated instead on the key to the puzzle.

  The child.

  The tiny needle in the sprawling haystack that was his city resort. But he had to start somewhere.

  Suspect? Definitely not.

  Eye-witness? Oh yes.

  He jumped up and shouted for his Lieutenant.

  Time to interview the concierge again.

  ***

  The little boy stopped running four miles from the hotel and dropped to the beach, panting and trembling, eyes big as hubcaps glittering in the moonlight.

  He had seen some bad things in the few short years of his life, but nothing like the evil he had witnessed that night.

  He curled up under a palm tree, a couple of broken fronds his only bedclothes, shivering despite the warm night air, his shoulders convulsing as he listened to the waves whispering a gentle lullaby. It calmed him. He loved the sea and was a good swimmer, heading for the beach most days.

  His heartbeat eventually slowed, his body quietened as he started to feel a little safer. The longhaired farang devil who wanted to kill him was nowhere to be seen.

  As the boy drifted in and out of sleep, exhausted, the shock and adrenalin having wrung his body of energy, he worried that he should have gone straight home. When the sun came up his cousin would be angry if he was not there. His cousin was always angry. He could not move though and finally sank into an exhausted, tortured sleep.

  When the boy woke, his mind was fuzzy, his head heavy, the sun’s heat overwhelming him. He struggled to his feet, managed to gather his bearings sufficiently to program his body to stagger the last few miles back home.

  And as his brain shut down he thought of Pop, and his cousin Fan. They would know what to do about the farang devil.

  They always knew what to do.

  ***

  Rational thoughts were a long way from Fan’s mind as he looked at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. He fondled his belt buckle and thought: Where is the fat pig? I’ll cut his heart out.

  Fan despised the American. In fact, he despised all Americans for their arrogance and vanity.

  But he loved their dollars.

  ‘Give me another beer,’ he called as the waiter skirted his table, then Fan went back to his daydream, imagining carving pieces off Simm, the American begging for mercy and offering wads of dollars for his life.

  Of course, he knew it was fantasy. But fifteen years of coke, crack, heroin and other assorted substances allowed him a vividness of imagination unequalled in the real world.

  His restless fingers beat the table tunelessly. His body juddered and he was slick with sweat. He cursed the American and tried to relax. Hot sun was frying his addled brain.

  Think. Think.

  Maybe this was a good thing. Simm was an addict too. Fan’s yellow teeth slid into view. An ugly smile reflecting his ugly mind.

  Dollars. Lots more dollars. The fat man had fallen for the little boy. He’s in love!

  Yes, a very big payday indeed for Fan when pig-man finally showed. He giggled. Then an American accent interrupted his reverie.

  ‘Hi. Are you Mister Fan?’

  He squinted up at the man, the sun behind the figure, shadowing his features. Fan giggled again. Much of his profit from the day before had been injected and snorted into his tiny frame. In the fifteen hours since he had left Simm he had not slept or been home.

  ‘Mister Fan? I like that! Yes, Mister Fan I am.’ The stranger sat, and Fan got a clear view of him. For once he was unsure what to make of the farang before him. Despite his chemically enhanced history and toxic brain, Fan could usually spot a mark instantly.

  In his world there were only three types of tourist: those who wanted sex and could be convinced to pay for it; those who liked to have sex with children and knew they had to pay for it; and the rest who were of no interest to him. Since the age of eight, when he had first tasted drugs, he had been involved with the first two categories – ‘marks’ he called them. In Fan’s warped view of the world
they made up the majority of Thailand’s tourist business.

  ‘I have a message for you from Mister Simm.’

  Fan’s eyes jumped around, checking the bar, the beach, the road and the man. Nothing. No alarm bells. No police.

  ‘Khun Simm owes me money.’

  Longhaired and unshaven, this man was not a normal tourist. His clothes were faded but not cheap, and his Ray-Bans looked genuine enough, though in Thailand you never can tell. He seemed vaguely familiar.

  Fan felt a twinge of paranoia. Such instincts had kept him alive.

  ‘My boss is delighted with the merchandise and would like to extend the arrangement until the end of the week.’

  It was love! Elation replaced Fan’s paranoia. Dollars. Maybe thousands of dollars. The rich American had promised him ongoing business, a regular supply of wealthy western marks, punters hungry for his merchandise.

  Fan’s foul teeth eased themselves into view again as the man continued. ‘Mister Simm has chartered a yacht and would like to discuss business terms if you would care to join him.’

  Ah, thought Fan, this man is a deckhand, a boat boy for the businessman. He fondled the gold medallion of Buddha, resting on his chest. At last his luck had changed.

  ‘Mr Simm asked me to give you this as a bonus, a sign of good faith.’

  Two hundred dollars! Fan had never known such generosity. He slipped the money into his pocket and demanded, excitement shining in his eyes. ‘When do we go?’

  ‘I have a tender to take you to him now.’ The man pointed to a rigid inflatable dinghy tethered near the beach bar.

  ‘OK. We go now.’ Fan was standing, raring to go and vibrating with excitement. He had to jog to keep up with the stranger as he strode towards the dinghy. ‘Your name, mister?’

  Fan almost collided with the man as he stopped and spun round. They were eye to eye as the farang pulled off the Ray-Bans and smiled for the first time.