Death in the Rainy Season

by Anna Jaquiery

  The interviews with each of the five employees who’d been on duty the night of Quercy’s murders were brief and revealed nothing new. At the end of it, Glaister handed Morel a list of names.

  ‘Here’s a list of the guests who were staying here on Sunday night,’ he said.

  ‘Have any of these people stayed here before?’ Morel asked, looking at the names.

  ‘The Chinese delegation,’ Glaister said, pointing to the list. ‘That group has stayed with us before, on two occasions. As for Hugo Quercy, who knows, right? Given that he checked in under a different name. All I know is he’s never stayed here as Hugo Quercy before, or as Jean Dupont until this one occasion. Personally, I’ve never seen him here before. Not that I can remember.’

  ‘Maybe we can work our way through the list together,’ Nizet suggested, looking at Morel. ‘How many names are there altogether?’

  ‘Thirty-six,’ Glaister replied. ‘There are twenty-four rooms. We had thirteen singles, and five couples, including one with a baby. Of the thirteen who checked in singly, eight came together. That’s the Chinese delegation.’

  ‘We’ll start with the guests who stayed in the rooms on either side of Quercy’s,’ Morel said. ‘The couple and the man. And then the four other people beside him who checked in alone and weren’t part of the delegation.’

  He turned to Glaister. ‘Thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else.’

  ‘You know where to find me,’ Glaister said.

  Nizet drove Morel back to his hotel. Neither of them said much on the way there. When they arrived, Morel got out of the car and thanked him. He was about to close the door on the passenger side when he stopped. Leaning into the car, he said, ‘It would be really helpful to me if I knew who was running this investigation. So far Chey Sarit has kept very quiet. He’s not taking charge and it makes my own position unclear. I thought I was here to assist, not lead.’

  Nizet smiled without warmth.

  ‘Officially, the Cambodians are running it,’ he said.

  ‘And unofficially?’

  ‘Unofficially, Sarit would be glad to be rid of it. If it turns out that someone within the expat community killed Hugo, then that’s fine. But if it’s something bigger . . .’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘If it’s something bigger,’ Nizet said, ignoring the question, ‘my guess is Sarit won’t want to be implicated. If it’s anything that might make the government or this country look bad, or might make them lose face, it will put him in a tight spot. His superiors won’t be pleased and he’ll be the first to pay. All Sarit wants is a quiet life.’

  Morel continued to lean into the car, digesting Nizet’s little speech.

  ‘Perhaps that was all Hugo Quercy wanted too,’ he said finally, before giving a curt wave and closing the door.

  After Morel and Nizet had left, Glaister stood at reception for a while, mulling over the events of the past couple of days. He didn’t like the way things were going. Death wasn’t good for business. What he needed – what his guests needed – was order and calm. He hoped to God the police would solve the murder quickly.

  While he stood there brooding, a man came up to the counter. Glaister looked up and frowned. He made no attempt to conceal his distaste.

  ‘The usual booking?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ the man said with a thick French accent.

  ‘Paying cash?’

  ‘As always.’ The man gave a sickly smile and averted his eyes.

  Two hours later, the Frenchman, whose actual name was Thierry and not the name he gave when he checked into the hotel, got into his car, which he’d parked further down the road, and drove home. Twice a week, he was on dinner duty because his wife played bridge and came home late. At home, he poured two cups of rice into the rice cooker and rinsed it several times before turning it on. He washed and peeled the prawns, leaving the tails. Then he made the curry that Marlene loved. It was bland, the way she liked it. He would spice his up later. While he cooked, he listened to a recording of a baroque ensemble which one of his colleagues at work had lent him. He cooked and listened to the singing and thought how lucky he was to live in this house and in this leafy, quiet part of Phnom Penh, surrounded by order and beauty – a life he and his wife had built together. She was a woman of elegance and good taste.

  When dinner was ready, Thierry looked at his watch and saw that it was still early. Marlene would be another hour at least. He picked up the latest copy of Le Point and sat on the sofa. But he couldn’t concentrate. The schoolgirl’s nakedness, her practised lewdness – she was a quick learner! – were all he could think about.

  For a long time it had been enough to simply look. But after a while, all it did was lead to disappointment, like an unfulfilled promise.

  Still, he might have held back. He wasn’t a risk-taker. But then he’d met another like him. At first, just a name in a chat room. Bruno. They had circled the issue at first. After a while, when they both realized they had things to share that they didn’t want to put out in the wider arena, they had gone into a private room. He was in Phnom Penh too. Thierry used a pseudonym and he guessed that Bruno wasn’t the other man’s real name either. Maybe the two of them had met without knowing it? Phnom Penh was a small town.

  Initially, the Frenchman had baulked at being so easily dumped into a category. He was his own man, not part of some exclusive club where only degenerates were allowed. The idea of fitting in to that sort of community offended him. But then Bruno had started sending him photos. Better than anything he himself had found while browsing the Internet. Much, much better.

  They caught up a few times a week now, always in the evenings and always online. He guessed that Bruno was at work during the day. Maybe he had a wife too.

  Bruno had even suggested that they meet. The suggestion alone had given the Frenchman a panic attack. He’d politely declined.

  What are you afraid of?

  What do you mean? I’m not afraid.

  Don’t lie.

  He’d logged out after that. He didn’t like Bruno’s tone. He was coarse, vulgar. But it was hard to stay away. They continued to chat and Bruno sent photographs each week. Gradually, he started sending other things, too. More personal images, documenting his sexual exploits. They indicated to Thierry that he too could make his fantasy a reality.

  Thierry could not get enough of what Bruno gave him. But he was also a little afraid of the man. At times, Bruno’s tone was cajoling, other times full of disdain. He was playing with him, Thierry decided. He couldn’t figure out why. It made him nervous to be the focus of the other man’s attention – what could Bruno possibly be getting out of their relationship? But despite his misgivings, he couldn’t stay away and he kept coming back for more. Every online encounter with Bruno left Thierry restless and his fantasies became more detailed, more thrilling, because there was a strong suggestion now that they might turn into something more.

  Thierry hated it and welcomed it all at once. His exchanges with Bruno fuelled his desire and gave him a sense of power he was unaccustomed to.

  He looked at his watch. He had twenty minutes or so before his wife came home. He closed the page he was looking at and quickly logged in to the chat room. Within seconds, his friend had come in. Almost as though he knew Thierry was there.

  How’s it going? Thierry wrote.

  Not well. Thanks for asking.

  What’s the problem? Thierry hated it when Bruno was in a bad mood.

  I think they’re watching us.

  A tremor started in Thierry’s fingertips. What do you mean? Who’s watching us? He fumbled with the keys and the words came out garbled before he deleted them and started again.

  I’d be careful if I were you. There’s a French detective in Phnom Penh. He’s come from Paris.

  What? I don’t understand what that has got to do with me.

  He’s a big shot at the criminal brigade.

  How do you know him?

&nbs
p; Who said anything about knowing him? I know of him. That’s plenty.

  Bruno’s anger was almost palpable. Thierry tried to placate him.

  He must be on holiday.

  No.

  No what?

  Just watch yourself. And whatever you do, don’t mention me. I don’t exist.

  There was a pause. The next sentence, seemingly banal, made Thierry’s heart beat faster.

  If you ever mention me, I’ll know about it.

  Then nothing. The other man had exited the chat room. Thierry waited. What had he meant, just watch yourself? And what about that last sentence? Did it mean that Bruno knew who he was? It was an unbearable thought.

  He felt alone and afraid. If only he hadn’t logged on.

  After a while, he got up to go to the bathroom. He washed his face with cold water.

  When his wife came home, he greeted her at the door with a kiss. It took all his strength to act as though everything was normal.

  SIXTEEN

  Standing by the side of the bed, Mariko watched Paul sleep and listened to the rain. She had come back from Florence’s to find him sitting on the bed, staring at the walls. Their maid had served lunch past three, looking uneasy because nothing was as it should be – her employers were never home like this during the week – and after that Paul had retreated to the bedroom again, insisting he needed to lie down. Mariko had tucked him in like a child.

  It was such a relief, the way it had been to finally put Nora to bed at the end of the day when she was little. For now at least, she didn’t have to worry about him.

  She made a cup of green tea and curled up on the sofa with her laptop. The two dogs dozed at her feet. One was an old, fretful Dobermann with partial paralysis in his limbs, and the other a wiry cross between a terrier and a spaniel, who trembled uncontrollably whenever it rained, which was all the time at the moment. A colleague of Mariko’s worked as a weekend volunteer at the Phnom Penh Animal Welfare Society and had told her about the city’s strays that needed looking after. Traditionally, monks in the city’s pagodas cared for these animals, just as they cared for people in need: the disabled and the elderly, the hungry and the poor. Looking out for the city’s hundreds of homeless dogs on top of that was more than the monks could handle.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could help?’ she’d asked Mariko, who’d mentioned it to Paul. To Mariko it had been a story to tell at the dinner table, but she’d forgotten how soft-hearted her husband was.

  ‘We should do something,’ Paul had said. Nora had pleaded too. Before Mariko knew it, they had taken in not one, but two dogs. Feeble and scarred, they slept a lot and the rest of the time shuffled about unsteadily, like two old war veterans. Now the half-terrier, half-spaniel was snoring loudly while the Dobermann sighed and twitched in his sleep. Mariko looked down at them and ran her hand lightly across their heads.

  This was her first day off work in two years. She hadn’t looked at her computer once. She’d been too busy comforting Florence, and then Paul. Maybe she should check her emails. But she was tired, and anxious. Somehow Hugo’s death felt like the beginning of something, rather than the end. It felt like being sucked into a dark tunnel.

  Hugo was gone. She hadn’t had a chance yet to let it sink in. How could she, with Paul being the way he was, deep in despair, and Nora refusing to speak to either of them? Mariko was worn out. This morning, her teenage daughter had left for school straight after breakfast and said she would be coming home only to drop off her bag and get changed. She was going to Lydia’s after that and they would travel to a party together. Lydia was Nora’s best friend.

  ‘A party in the middle of the week?’ Mariko had asked, feeling like an old woman as she said it.

  In normal times, Mariko would have said no. Nora hadn’t phrased it as a request, though. Quietly, Mariko had been relieved. She had her hands full. All day Paul had refused to leave the house. He’d sat in front of the TV with glazed eyes while she went about the place looking for things to do, things that she had stopped doing long ago since she was always working. Here in Phnom Penh they had a maid who cleaned and cooked. They also had a gardener, a security guard who watched over the house at night, and a driver whom they rarely relied on.

  After lunch, Mariko had told the maid to take the rest of the day off. She’d encouraged the woman to go out, but she was still in her room watching TV. The sound of canned laughter came through the door at regular intervals.

  All day she’d held her tongue. It was exasperating, watching Paul move from room to room like an invalid. Dragging his feet and wiping tears from his face every time he thought she wasn’t looking. At times she felt pity but mostly she wanted to shake him. Wake up! she wanted to shout. You have no right to feel sorry for yourself. You’re alive, aren’t you? You’re not the one who got killed.

  It was well past four o’clock and there was still no sign of her daughter. She wondered whether to call Lydia’s house to ask when Nora would be back, but she could picture her daughter rolling her eyes. Instead, she looked in the fridge to find something for dinner. There was enough left over from last night’s meal. The food that Paul had left untouched while he and Kate cried on each other’s shoulder. Few people got under Mariko’s skin but Kate was right at the top of that list. Mariko had no time for self-righteous do-gooders like Kate O’Sullivan. Kate with her loud voice and principled opinions. Mariko had told her so one evening, after a few too many drinks. It had been a mistake. Hugo had been there too, clearly as drunk as everyone else. He had started teasing Kate and the silly woman had become teary, snivelling on their sofa, her hands clutching at a tissue and her skirt tucked between two chubby knees.

  The poor, deluded woman. She had worshipped Hugo.

  Mariko returned to the sofa and sat up with the laptop on her knees. She wondered whether to call Florence, to make sure she was OK. But Florence had said she intended to sleep – she was exhausted from all the crying. Mariko sighed and began trawling through her inbox. She had ninety-two unread emails. Most of them were work-related.

  Shortly past 6 p.m., Nora came home. She avoided Mariko’s gaze and went to the fridge to pour a glass of juice. Not so long ago she would have sat on the sofa and Mariko would have made them cups of green tea, serving it in the treasured Osaka set which Mariko’s father had given to her on her wedding day. She only brought it out on such privileged occasions, when she and Nora sat together and talked.

  These days the tea set remained in the cupboard. Nora was a different person. Mariko wasn’t sure whether this had happened overnight or gradually. At times, being with her daughter was like being with a stranger. It was uncomfortable, and you had to think of what to say. Other times, Mariko caught a glimpse of the old Nora and her heart ached, because this was the part that Nora no longer shared with her.

  Her daughter went off to get changed and reappeared fifteen minutes later, looking like she’d done her best not to dress for a party. She was wearing a grey T-shirt and baggy black trousers. It was one of the things Mariko liked about Nora, her impatience with make-up and labels and shoes. But lately she’d found herself wishing the girl would look after herself a little more. Her daughter, who had always taken pride in her appearance without being as self-obsessed as many of her friends seemed to be, was neglecting herself.

  ‘Please tell Jeremy happy birthday from us,’ Mariko said in Japanese.

  ‘You don’t even remember who he is,’ Nora replied in English. Lately, she had refused to speak Japanese, though she was fluent enough. She had her mother’s natural aptitude for language.

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ Mariko said, determined to be pleasant despite Nora’s rudeness. She did remember Jeremy. A boy in Nora’s class, well-mannered and tall. He had come to the house a few times and seemed nice enough.

  ‘Well, I hope you have fun. Not too late, please.’

  Nora didn’t respond. Mariko expected her to leave now but instead her daughter sat on the other sofa.

  ‘
You’re not going?’ Mariko asked.

  ‘Lydia’s picking me up in ten minutes.’

  ‘How is Lydia?’ Mariko asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  Mariko decided to try a direct approach.

  ‘You’re still angry with me?’

  Nora looked resentful. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Well, you obviously do care. And I’m sorry we shut you out like that when we did.’

  ‘You shut the door in my face.’

  ‘Your father was terribly upset. I thought he deserved some privacy. And I was hoping to shield you from what was happening.’

  ‘How is that shielding me?’ Her daughter’s eyes were bright and her face flushed.

  ‘Sometimes people need privacy to grieve,’ Mariko repeated. ‘Paul would have been even more upset if you’d been in the room with him while he –’ she searched for a way to say it – ‘reacted to his friend’s death.’

  ‘What about how upset I was?’ Nora said. Tears ran down her face, but Mariko remained unmoved. Nora was wrong to claim this as her own.

  ‘Be reasonable, Nora,’ she said. Her daughter’s face registered surprise, quickly followed by outrage. ‘I’ve apologized to you but really I think you’re being a little thoughtless. Remember it was your father who lost his closest friend. I understand how upsetting it is for you; the death of someone you know is always confronting. But I want you to show a little understanding. Please. For Paul’s sake.’

  Nora took her empty glass to the sink. Then she turned to Mariko.

  ‘He wasn’t just Dad’s friend, you know,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘He was my friend too.’

  Nora’s friend? Before Mariko could think of anything to say, her daughter had walked out of the room. Mariko heard the front door close. She thought about going after her but the idea of more talking and more tears was exhausting. Not now.