Death in the Rainy Season

by Anna Jaquiery

  Morel shifted again and sighed. He thought about the awkward encounter with his uncle.

  ‘I’m trying,’ he said aloud, as if his mother could hear.

  A bird let out a shriek, startling him. A gecko responded with a series of slow hiccups. His mother had once told him that the presence of a tokay gecko in a house was auspicious. The amount of luck derived from it depended on the number of times the creature called out. An odd number was better than an even one. Less than five was no good. Morel wasn’t superstitious but he listened carefully and was childishly glad when the lizard called out seven times.

  He found a comfortable position and let his mind wander. His mother appeared before him. The curtains billowed, then became still. As if her spirit had passed.

  NINETEEN

  He’d been preparing for this moment for some time. And now he was ready.

  Hugo stepped into the gloom and looked around. It was the usual seedy crowd. Middle-aged and older men, mostly. ‘La Isla Bonita’ was playing and the ‘girls’ were gyrating on the dance floor, half-heartedly swinging their hips from side to side. They looked bored, though occasionally one would say something to the other and this would bring forth a smile or a quick laugh.

  He was buzzing. He ordered a whisky from the bar and finished it in one gulp, keeping an eye on the entrance. An hour and several drinks later, just as he was about to call it a night, the person he’d been waiting for came through the door. He headed for the bar and ordered a beer. Hugo could have reached over and touched his arm. After a while, the man finished his drink and crossed the room without looking at the girls or any of the punters. He disappeared through a back door. Hugo waited a couple of minutes and followed. Through the door and up a flight of stairs into a room where the windows were covered in black cloth and it was so dark you could barely see the drink that was set right in front of you.

  There, a girl wearing a black miniskirt and a black bikini top was singing a popular Khmer song. Five or six other girls sat along the wall. There were two men sitting together, both of them local. They didn’t even look his way when he sat down. There was another man, hidden in the shadows at the other end of the room. Hugo caught the glint of his glasses. He was alone.

  Hugo had it all figured out. He would wait till he was sure about the man. He knew the girls in this room were just a distraction. They were too old, not his type. The man was after something else. Soon, he would make his move and Hugo would be right behind him. He would call the police. They would make the arrest.

  It was a fail-proof plan, except that he hadn’t factored in the rage. It had been welling up inside him for months now. Maybe years. He’d almost forgotten what it was about, whether it was the perverts that made him sick or the politicians and their greed. Deep down, though, he knew it had something to do with his own expectations. A chasm lay between what he was doing and what he was capable of. He was meant for so much more.

  His rage was like a storm inside him by the time the man stepped out of the shadows and moved towards one of the girls sitting with her short skirt riding up her legs. She looked underage too. In the dark it was hard to tell. The man leaned over to talk to her, one hand on her shoulder.

  Maybe it was the intensity of Hugo’s gaze, but the man seemed to sense something. He looked up and saw him. There was no recognition. How could there be? But it was obvious something clicked in his mind. Though they were several metres apart, Hugo could smell his fear.

  After that, everything happened quickly. The man turned and fled through the door, and Hugo followed. He was younger and fitter than his quarry and it didn’t take him long to catch up with him. Within seconds, they were both outside and the man was fumbling with his keys, trying to get into his car.

  ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No. But I know you.’

  Hugo grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it behind his back. He put all his weight into it. The man screamed in pain. People were coming out of the bar to see what was happening.

  ‘You! Leave him alone!’ someone said.

  Hugo let go and the man slumped onto the ground, crying. He started running. Luckily it was dark. He looked back to see if he was being chased. There was no one. He stopped and threw up by the side of the road, heaving from the exertion and the alcohol churning in his stomach.

  After a while he straightened himself and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He started walking.

  PART 3

  WEDNESDAY 28 SEPTEMBER

  TWENTY

  Sarit looked at his watch and cursed. His stomach was rumbling and both the Frenchman Morel and Sok Pran, the doctor, were late. He took a packet of Aras from his pocket and stepped out onto the busy road. A man sped past on his bicycle, so close that the police captain felt a rush of wind as he went. The cyclist half turned with a gesture of apology that turned to anxiety when he saw the police uniform, making him swerve wildly on the road. There was a beeping of car horns and a ringing of bicycle bells, followed by a hearty trading of insults.

  ‘Ah lop,’ Sarit muttered under his breath. Dumb arse.

  He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. As he let the smoke out, he looked down at his shoes. He had spent at least ten minutes polishing them this morning and they looked like new. While he cleaned his shoes, his wife had got his coffee ready. He always took it to work in a plastic bag tied with a rubber band.

  Sarit and his wife were expecting their fifth child. It seemed like just yesterday when their fourth child, a girl, was born and had moved into the marital bed, sleeping close to her mother as though the woman who’d brought her into the world belonged to her only and Sarit was just a tolerated visitor. Being the first daughter, she remained in their bed for longer than Sarit would have liked, but she had finally been moved into the other room with her brothers. He enjoyed having his wife to himself again but that didn’t last long. Now she was eight months pregnant, her belly looking like it was ready to split open. Another baby, another mouth to feed.

  Sarit sighed and stubbed out his cigarette with his shoe. He turned and entered the busy coffee shop. The woman behind the counter recognized him. She hurried over and directed him towards a table. Within minutes, she had brought his steamed rice and pork.

  Sarit sipped at his own sweet, milky coffee and for the second time that morning he read the article on the front page of the Phnom Penh Post. There was a picture of the man who had been gunned down the day before, in front of a logging company. The paper referred to him as a land activist. He had been shot by a private security official working for the loggers, but Sarit knew how to read between the lines. He knew that the security official must have had orders from higher up.

  Sarit put down his cup and looked at his breakfast. He wasn’t sure he could stomach it.

  ‘I don’t know why you like this place so much.’ Sok Pran pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the stool carefully before sitting on it.

  ‘Coffee?’ Sarit asked.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Sarit gestured to the waitress. Then he pushed the newspaper towards the doctor. ‘Have you seen this?’

  ‘I have. If you’re asking me whether I’m shocked or surprised, the answer is no. It isn’t the first time.’

  ‘Sure. But it doesn’t always get this kind of publicity.’

  Pran’s coffee arrived and he picked up the cup and sipped carefully.

  ‘How is the investigation going?’

  Sarit shrugged. ‘It’s with the French policeman. Morel.’

  ‘Has he made any progress?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Have you told him about the note in the dead man’s wallet?’

  Sarit eyed Pran carefully. ‘No. Why are you asking me that?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe you should let him know about it.’

  ‘Why the hell would I do that? Just because of an article in the newspaper?’

  Pran considered him for a moment.

  ‘If you are so convin
ced that this Frenchman was killed by one of his own, why do you need to hide it?’

  ‘Why do you want to cause trouble?’ Sarit asked. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Morel.

  ‘He’s here,’ Sarit said.

  Morel set his cup back on the table and leaned forward.

  ‘I’m wondering,’ he said, ‘why someone went to Quercy’s house that night. What were they looking for? If it was the murderer, you’d think they would have wanted to keep a low profile – to disappear – after killing Quercy.’

  Sarit shook his head.

  ‘It could also be a coincidence. A burglary attempt. There are so many burglaries here in Phnom Penh,’ he said. ‘It’s the reason why security guards are employed. If you don’t have a guard, then you can be certain your house will be burgled.’

  ‘The Quercys didn’t have a security guard. That was unusual, was it?’

  ‘Very,’ Sarit said. ‘Maybe he thought he didn’t need one.’

  ‘Why would he think that?’ Morel asked, curious.

  ‘Maybe he thought he was safe. Or immune to crime,’ Sarit said.

  Morel looked thoughtful. ‘If the intruder wasn’t the person who killed him, then who was it? And why? It doesn’t look like anything was taken. Or maybe Quercy’s widow doesn’t realize that something’s gone. Something that was his.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. He had a study. Maybe it was something to do with his work. Documents, perhaps. We should go back and talk to Quercy’s widow again, Sarit.’

  ‘OK,’ Sarit said, adding, ‘You know, I still believe this was a personal crime.’

  ‘You want to believe it was personal,’ Morel said. He was suddenly impatient. ‘We need to consider every possibility. Even the ones that might not sit well with you.’

  ‘Sarit is in a difficult situation,’ Pran interjected.

  ‘Pran,’ Sarit said, a note of warning in his voice.

  ‘Difficult how?’ Morel pressed.

  ‘We face so many challenges right now, as a country. Our government is already receiving international criticism for corruption and authoritarianism. Prime Minister Hun Sen,’ Pran said, lowering his voice, ‘is under pressure. Monsieur Quercy’s uncle is a French government minister. His death could generate a lot of negative publicity for our government. Sarit has to be careful.’

  ‘Careful about what? How would your government be implicated in this?’ Morel asked.

  Sarit shrugged. ‘Pran is talking nonsense,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think he is,’ Morel said. ‘After all, there is a real possibility that Quercy’s professional activities got him into trouble. Maybe there is a political connection.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’ Sarit asked.

  ‘I’ve been looking into Kids at Risk. It has a hotline people can call to report any suspected child abuse. It was monitoring paedophile suspects. That’s dangerous territory. These are people who would not want to be exposed.’

  Sarit lit a cigarette. Morel was tempted to have one himself, but he didn’t. The effort of quitting had cost him a lot. He didn’t want to go through that again.

  ‘Have you seen the news today?’ the doctor asked. He pushed the newspaper towards Morel. ‘A land activist. Shot down. Just like that.’

  ‘I did see that.’

  ‘It’s not an accident, I can tell you that much. Someone didn’t like what he was doing.’

  Morel shook his head. ‘What’s happening – the land grabs – is criminal,’ he said.

  ‘It is,’ Pran agreed. ‘The government is stealing land from families who have owned it for generations. All for the benefit of people who are looking to fill their pockets.’

  ‘Who is benefting?’ Morel asked. He noticed that Sarit, ordinarily so composed, looked ruffled.

  ‘Foreign and local businesses, mostly,’ Pran said. ‘Government officials too. Their relatives and friends.’

  ‘You talk too much,’ Sarit said.

  The doctor shook his head, visibly angry.

  ‘Look at where we are now, Sarit. What have we got? Who does this country belong to?’ He turned to Morel. ‘All you have to do is look at this city to see how much has changed. Do you know what I remember of the old Phnom Penh? It was the most beautiful place you could imagine. There was hardly any poverty and we were content. Family was what mattered. From the family, everything flowed. Economics, society, culture. We had many foreigners living here just as we do now, but despite that Phnom Penh was truly a Cambodian city, a city with its own special Khmer flavour. We had our Buddhist festivals. We had our king.’

  ‘We have a king now,’ Sarit interjected.

  ‘Yes, but things are different,’ Pran said more forcefully. ‘Sihanouk had his faults, of course, but he embodied that special, unique culture we had. The festivals are back but now they are meaningless. They’ve become simply a tourist attraction.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Sarit said. Morel had never seen him like this. He was, he realized, painfully embarrassed.

  ‘Sihanouk didn’t give everything away, not like this government. Hun Sen, he is selling the country bit by bit. Robbing our people.’

  Pran gazed at Sarit with shining eyes.

  ‘Who do you think will own our country when your children have grown up and we are no longer here? Our forests are being depleted. They are building dams along the river, cutting off our fish supplies. Surely you must worry about your children’s future?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Sarit said. ‘What is the point in worrying? Nothing is ever perfect.’

  Morel looked from one man to the other. Something else was going on here, beyond the political argument. Something he wasn’t privy to. He wanted to know what it was.

  ‘I think we should get going,’ Sarit said.

  The doctor looked as though he was about to say something more, then thought better of it.

  Sarit’s phone rang. He answered it and signalled to the other two that they shouldn’t wait, he would catch up with them.

  ‘What was that about?’ Morel said. Pran still looked annoyed.

  ‘Sarit is stubborn, but I know deep down he agrees with me,’ he told Morel. ‘He’s had a hard time. The Khmer Rouge killed many of his relatives. He lost his parents and his three siblings. Somehow he managed to stay alive.’

  Morel thought about Sam, his uncle.

  ‘Has he ever talked to you about it?’

  Pran shook his head.

  ‘That wouldn’t be like Sarit at all. If he was listening to me now, he would say I’ve become a Frenchman, the way I blabber on about things.’

  ‘You lived in France for a while. When did you move there?’

  ‘The day I realized I had no choice. I took my family across the Thai border in March 1975 – only weeks before the Khmer Rouge entered Phnom Penh and proceeded to drag our country and our people back to the Stone Age. I was lucky,’ he added.

  Sarit was heading back towards them. Morel found himself wondering what sort of wage the Cambodian detective was earning and to what extent, in his position, he was susceptible to bribes.

  ‘How does Sarit cope financially?’ Morel asked Pran.

  ‘His family own a small farm,’ the doctor said. They grow a few things. They manage. It means he hasn’t had to compromise himself. He doesn’t earn much but – I know what you are thinking – he doesn’t take bribes. He keeps a low profile. Nowadays most police officers tend to be loyal to a political party first. Not their country or their government. Sarit is different.’

  ‘What isn’t he telling me?’ Morel asked quickly, before Sarit was within earshot.

  Pran pursed his lips. ‘You will have to ask him,’ he said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Kids at Risk was a couple of streets down from Phnom Penh’s Central Market. You could see the market’s art deco roof from here. The NGO was housed in a ramshackle two-storey building that looked neglected and in need of repair, but on its facade a bright mural depict
ed children flying kites and riding bicycles.

  Inside, the policemen were greeted by a young man who introduced himself as Adam Spencer. Spencer was tall and thin, with a sallow complexion. But he was handsome, his narrow, expressive face marked by dark eyes and a broad forehead.

  Kate O’Sullivan, who Paul Arda claimed had been having an affair with Hugo Quercy, was very different from Quercy’s wife Florence. Her handshake was firm, almost masculine. She wore cargo trousers, a man’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a bone carving around her neck shaped like a fish hook.

  There was only one other foreigner in the team. Julia de Krees, a South African woman who had returned from a visit to her family in Cape Town the day before the police had informed the team that Hugo was dead. Now she looked at Morel and Sarit in disbelief.

  ‘You know I still can’t believe this has happened,’ she said.

  ‘It must be a shock,’ Morel replied.

  Adam cleared his throat. ‘Commandant, let me introduce you to everyone. There are twenty-two Cambodians working for us across the city. Six here in the office.’ He looked at Morel and Sarit in turn, as if he wasn’t sure whom he should be addressing. Sarit greeted the local staff in Khmer and, as he continued, Morel understood enough to know he was running them through the procedure this morning, telling them what they should expect.

  ‘You’ll need a room where you can talk to people in private, I guess?’ Adam asked Morel.

  ‘That would be good.’

  ‘You can have my . . . I mean, Hugo’s office. Obviously no one’s using it at the moment. We haven’t, uh . . .’ Suddenly he seemed a little less confident.

  ‘What Adam means is we haven’t started looking for a replacement for Hugo yet. The role will need to be advertised,’ Kate piped up. She and Adam exchanged a look, which Morel found hard to interpret.

  ‘How do you want to proceed?’ he asked Sarit.

  ‘I will interview the Cambodians,’ Sarit said. ‘Perhaps you can interview Mr Spencer, Miss O’Sullivan and Mrs de Krees.’