“No. I’m by myself.”
“Then listen. This is serious. I got into—”
“Wait. Let me get under cover so I can hear you. It’s raining really hard down here.”
A couple of minutes passed as he pulled into a public gazebo beside the road.
“OK,” he said.
“All right. Has she told you about the missing doctor?”
“Yeah.”
“I got into the e-mails between Dr. June at the hospital and the Medley people. Like I suspected, they were all sent via some proxy address in India. But it’s all traceable back to Europe. The people … Are you listening?”
“You hacked into someone’s account?”
“I … you … look, we’ll get into the morality of all this later. Right now, Jimm’s in trouble. Dr. June is the rep for Medley for the whole of the south of Thailand. She’s the one who’s responsible for spreading the word that formula is stardust. Everything that’s happened down there she’s reported to her minder in Switzerland. I traced him to a freelance business agency. The staff roster there looks like roll call at the penitentiary. All seedy guys and gals with records and fake CVs. I’ve got a printout of the correspondence between W, that’s the code name of the minder, and Dr. Seuss, that’s your Dr. June. Are you getting all this?”
“You have to stop treating me like I’m stupid.”
“All right. I’m sorry. The highlights of the e-mails are these: ‘W. Dr. S is getting troublesome. I’m not sure I know how to shut her up.’ ‘Thanks, Seuss. We’re all sympathetic to your problem. We’re sure you’ll find a way to reduce the doctor’s influence. In fact, your bonus depends on it.’
“And later: “‘Seuss. Congratulations. We were confident you’d find a way to nullify Doctor S. Your new problem seems to be equally annoying. But journalists in Thailand have proven to be easily influenced away from a story. One or two threats should be enough. We support whatever method you adopt. Good luck.’
“And then later, ‘W. The journalist is still pushing. Threats ignored. Any suggestions?’
“‘Seuss. Whatever approach you used to shut up Dr. S would appear to have worked just fine. We suggest you repeat that with the journalist.’
“So, Arny. I know it doesn’t actually say how they plan to shut Jimm up, but I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either,” said Arny.
He floored the accelerator, which made a lot of noise but didn’t actually start the truck moving. Then he remembered the gears. The truck lurched out of the shelter and into the rain.
“Are you still there, little brother?”
“Yes, Sissi.”
“Good. I did research on Dr. June. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“She was born in Malaysia to Chinese parents. The parents split up, and June moved to Thailand with her father. He stuck her in international schools and went through most of the family wealth on a parade of girlfriends and drink and drugs. June already spoke English and Malay and Hokkien, so picking up Thai wasn’t such a problem. She was fluent by the time she was seventeen. She applied for Thai citizenship four times before it was approved. She had the money and the determination, so by the time she was nineteen she had a Thai passport and a Thai surname. She took the name Chantavath. June was her original given name, but although she kept it as a nickname when she arrived here, she stated her given name as Chani. With her language ability and excellent grades in the entrance examination, she registered to study medicine at Mahidol.
“She passed all the exams without remarkable distinction, as one would expect from a foreigner studying in Thai, and after an internship at the Bangkok Christian Hospital, she worked in general practice. From there she took a modest interest in child health, for which she became relatively well known. She authored a lot of journal papers. Depressing subjects. Child mortality and incurable diseases. She moved into administration and spent more time writing about health than practicing it. But it wasn’t until five years ago that she rose from this unspectacular career and became a minor celebrity in the south. Her name was suddenly a buzzword for advancements in rural development in children’s issues. No husband. No children of her own. In later interviews she claimed to be married to her work. Although she ‘would have relished the opportunity to have children,’ she never found a man who could accept her devotion to her causes and her energy. You still listening?”
“I’m listening. Sissi? All that was in her immigration file?”
“That and her police record.”
“Police record?”
“She apparently has harassment issues. Twice she’s been taken to court by people who claimed she’d threatened them. One younger intern made a complaint that she was being harassed sexually. Dr. June got off both times.”
“All right. I get it. But my priority right now is to find Jimm and get her home.”
“But you will tell her everything I’ve said here?”
“Of course.”
* * *
The boys on surveillance had turned off their cell phones before they approached the open gates of the Coralbank mansion. They stopped at the top of the hill. Grandad climbed from the motorcycle, and Chompu drove back down to give the impression of a taxi man dropping off a passenger. In the house, they’d assume that Jimm had paid the fare. Chompu jogged back up to join Grandad, bemoaning the fact that he’d given up Pilates and had suffered accordingly. He was running on adrenaline and soaked to the bone. He and Grandad kept to the shadows of the flailing bushes and edged down the driveway to the house. Tall palms leaned away from the sea and clapped their fronds as a warning of things to come.
Before it was snatched by a gust of wind, they saw a note pinned to a tree with the word Jimm and an arrow pointing to the house. Chompu and Grandad reached the back wall just as the power went off. They were immediately lost in a velvet maze. They were close enough to hear one another’s breaths.
“You bring a flashlight?” Chompu asked.
“You’re the policeman.”
“You’re the organizer.”
As they were men, albeit elderly or gay, neither would admit to being petrified at that moment. There was a mechanical cough from somewhere off to their right and the sound of a generator coming to life. The houselights were ignited almost immediately, the only illumination for twenty kilometers around. Maprao was blacked out. The two men squeezed themselves into the last of the shadows. Even though they were close enough to speak without being heard, Grandad Jah insisted on employing the nifty hand signals the SWAT teams used. He’d picked them up from DVDs. Chompu disliked violent movies, so he’d never learned them. He had no idea what the old man was trying to tell him, so he walked down the driveway without crouching or zigzagging to avoid gunfire. When the old man scurried to a damp spot beneath a sprawling hibiscus, Chompu walked up to the nearest glass door and slid it open. He was only too pleased to step inside, out of the relentless rain. Grandad followed him in.
“What are you doing?” he whispered. “The door could have been wired to an alarm.”
“I knew it was safe.”
“How?”
Chompu pointed to the note taped to the inside of the glass. It read: Jimm. This door’s open.
“We’re lit up like the Royal Palace here,” whispered Grandad.
But Chompu drew solace from the fact that they had Kow watching their backs from the bushes below. He took the cell phone off his belt.
“Kow,” he said. “See anything?”
“I see you two” came the reply.
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“I’ll keep this channel open. Shout if anything comes up … Kow? You’re supposed to say, ‘Roger’ or something. Kow? Kow?”
There was nothing but static.
“The useless lump’s probably dropped his phone down a crack in the rocks,” said Grandad. “Worthless. I tell you.”
“There’s no need for—” Chompu began, but he was
interrupted by a man’s voice from the stairwell behind them.
“I know you’re down there.”
Grandad’s heart flipped over like a pancake. Chompu’s legs turned to agar. The voice was followed by what could only be described as a soundtrack, the type in movies that accompanies a lone female on a walk through a haunted house, all singing saws and piano strings.
“Come on up,” said the voice. “Don’t be afraid. I have something for you. Something you’ll never forget.”
This time it was Chompu with the signals. He pointed to himself, twiddled his fingers to suggest walking, and pointed to the external staircase they’d passed on their way in. He indicated for Grandad to take the internal stairs, and in seconds he was gone. Grandad remained alone at the foot of the staircase. It was hard to tell what he was thinking at that moment because he never shared his feelings with anyone. As a lifelong traffic policeman he’d never been in a life-or-death situation. He’d had a gun during his career but had never fired it in all of those years in uniform. It was unlikely he was as cool and calm as he pretended to be as he climbed the stairs. He reached the top landing, which was pitch black, but he knew his silhouette would still be illuminated from below. An easy target for anyone armed. He flicked the two-way switch at the top of the stairs and instead of seeing everything clearly, the downstairs lights went out and he was once again blind.
“Are you feeling afraid?” came the voice of Coralbank, the music increasing in volume behind it. Grandad had no idea what the voice was saying, so he didn’t reply.
“This is how it feels,” Coralbank continued. “That moment of confusion. What lies inside the darkness? It’s the moment when you don’t know with any certainty how close to death you are. When you wonder what I am holding here in this invisible void.”
Grandad Jah was actually wondering where the hell his brave policeman colleague had gone. Why Kow didn’t answer the phone. Why he was all alone in this raid. Why the rain lashing against the windows sounded so final. Whether the Burmese were here too, lurking in the blackness with their knives. One old man against three assailants. The writer was still babbling on.
“Come in,” he said. “Take one brave step farther into the darkness.”
The only choice Grandad had was to remain silent. He had his gun. All it lacked was bullets. Only he knew this fact. Pistol ammunition could only be sold if you had a certificate from the police. As the gun was unlicensed, he’d not had that option.
“Just trust me,” said the writer. “Follow my voice. Put all your faith in me. Come to me.”
Grandad felt along the upstairs landing for a second switch, one that might end this terror. He crept silently sideways with his back to the wall, away from the voice. All the time feeling for a light switch. He wondered what he might be reincarnated as. A horse? A cockroach? As barely living coral? He wondered whether he’d be given a choice. Wondered whether his unpleasantness in this life might condemn him to misery in the next. If only he’d spent those nights in the coffin.
He was about five paces to the right of the staircase now and decided he had no choice but to attack. To run headfirst toward the speaker. Perhaps he might barge into him and catch him by surprise. He let out a deep breath and started across the room. After only three steps he was blinded by a battery of spotlights embedded in the ceiling. He looked to his left to see Lieutenant Chompu at the study door with his hand on the main light switch.
In the center of the room was a two-person dining table, laid to the nines with a candelabrum, several plates with stainless steel covers and a full bottle of wine with two glasses. On the far side of the table, naked apart from a leather waistcoat, thigh-length boots, and a black Lone Ranger mask, was the famous author, Conrad Coralbank. His lips formed an almost perfect O.
* * *
“It begins,” she’d said, the insipid smile still on her face, “with a slight catch in the breath, then a heart flutter. Then the room tilts first one way, then the other.”
I was living her description.
“You feel as if your sense of balance has been lost,” she continued. “As if you couldn’t stand even if you wanted to. Then, poof, you’re gone.”
Just before I fell headfirst onto the glass coffee table and made a big bloody crease across my forehead, I thought I’d seen someone—a woman, perhaps—walk into the room. But I had been too preoccupied with my fight against unconsciousness to notice who she was. The bitter Shiraz. The sleight of hand. The overwhelming feeling of stupidity. All this came to me in the seconds before the crash of glass and the swirling pool of nausea.
* * *
They sat in the main room of the big glass house. It was something Lieutenant Chompu had dreamed of—a drawing-room denouement. He didn’t actually know what a drawing room was, but he and Jimm had watched Poirot on illegal BBC downloads. All the murder mysteries ended like this, and it gave a clever policeman the chance to bamboozle a confession out of the guilty party.
Seated around the glass coffee table were the author, now dressed in a yukata, the maid with her face caked in powder, the man she claimed to be her husband but who was actually her brother, a retired traffic cop, a fisherman, and him, the clever police officer. And he needed to be brilliant that evening because as far as he could see no crime had actually been committed. Not unless you counted trespassing on private property and illegal entry. But the air was thick with potential confessions.
There was, it had to be said, one more flaw in the methodology of this denouement. There was no common language. Coralbank’s Thai was only matched in its awfulness by the English of Grandad Jah and Chompu. The latter had a number of memorized phrases but no vocabulary that could be considered “functional.” Captain Kow happily confessed that Manchester and United were the only two words he knew in English. Jo the gardener spoke nothing but Burmese, which left only A, the maid. Although her English and Thai both sounded like Burmese, she had the vocabulary and was truly the only person who could act as interpreter. Which explains why one of the main suspects in a crime nobody could actually put their finger on was translating.
Chompu walked around the circle of chairs with his hands behind his back.
“So,” he said. “A…”
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.
“No, I would not. But thank you for asking. I was—”
“Tea?”
“Ms. A,” he said. “Let us just imagine for a moment that you are not a maid. You are merely a member of the household. Do not feel obliged to serve us.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Right,” said Chompu. “Now we have a number of issues to work through. I’d appreciate it if you could translate for your employer as we proceed. I shall, of course, be checking the accuracy of your English because I am fluent in the language. I’m just a little too shy to speak it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chompu flipped open his Hello Kitty notepad.
“Ms. A, on the evening of the twentieth, your … husband was seen in the garden of this house with a machete and a cement bag. Could you tell us what he was doing there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I mean … tell us.”
“It’s difficult,” she said.
“Sometimes the truth can be,” said Chompu.
“No, I mean it’s difficult to answer your questions and translate at the same time.”
“I understand. Then we’ll allow you to translate at the end of each block of questions.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She told Coralbank, who didn’t seem to be in the mood for any of this. In fact, since his embarrassing exposure, the renowned writer had been remarkably short of words.
“So, Ms. A,” said Chompu.
“Durian, sir.”
“What about it?”
“The master has a dozen durian trees along the edge of his land. He hates the smell. He kindly allows us to sell the fruit we get from those trees, but he refuses to let us harvest them dur
ing the heat of the day when he’s around. He has a very sensitive nose. So Jo cuts them down late at night when it’s cool and the master is asleep.”
“A, could you ask the master if that’s true?” said Chompu.
“Are you nuts?” asked Grandad. “Do you honestly think she’d tell us if he said no?”
“I know what I’m doing,” said the policeman.
“You could have fooled me.”
“The master says it’s true,” said A, and Chompu felt even more stupid. He returned to his notes.
“On the night of the thirteenth,” he said, “you hired a motorcycle taxi with a sidecar to take two polystyrene boxes to the bus station.”
“That might be true, sir.”
“Might be?”
“It’s something we do often, sir. But I’m not sure whether we sent boxes on that date.”
“What was in the boxes?”
“Why, the durian, sir. We send them to my sister in Chiang Mai. These are very expensive durian. Golden Pillow. The best. They cost a small fortune in the north. My sister sells them at Warorot Market.”
“It all smells pretty fishy to me,” said Grandad.
“It all sounds pretty logical to me,” said Captain Kow, who knew what fishy smelled like.
Captain Kow smiled. Grandad Jah snarled. Chompu realized he was on dodgy legal ground by just being there, interrogating people without a warrant. And still there wasn’t a hint of a crime. He knew he’d have to get his questioning done and leave before the owner came to his senses and called his lawyer.
“Ms. A,” he said, “could you ask Mr. Coralbank where his wife is?”
“Oh, I know where she is, sir.”
“You do?”
“Yes, sir. She’s in Bangkok.”
“Is there any way of verifying that?”
“I have her cell-phone number,” she said. “We chat often. I was quite close to the mistress.”
“Do you have the number?”
A took her cell phone from her pocket and scrolled down. She pressed “Connect” and handed the phone to the policeman. There followed a short but friendly conversation in which Chompu asked Coralbank’s wife how she was and apologized for the inconvenience. He clicked “End call” and nodded to his cohorts. The chances of a major crime having taken place at the big glass house were becoming remote. He tried one last ploy.
The Axe Factor: A Jimm Juree Mystery (Jimm Juree Mysteries) Page 19
