Death in the Rainy Season

by Anna Jaquiery

After that, they didn’t speak till they reached the hotel. Morel didn’t mind the silence. He looked out his window. It was raining steadily again. People wore plastic raincoats and stepped in puddles. It was near impossible to remain dry.

  At this time of year the rains were relentless. Other visitors might choose to avoid this season but Morel welcomed it. He thought about Siem Reap, where the flooding was worse. Each day, he’d come down the hotel steps to find the water lapping at his ankles. Cyclos, tuk-tuks and cars sailed past with their wheels half submerged. In some areas, the only way to get from one place to another was to wade knee-high through muddy water. Morel avoided the worst of it but he didn’t really mind getting wet. The tall, lush grass along the river was impossibly green and everything from the red earth clinging to his shoes to the pungent smells rising from the fruit trees and food stalls was an assault on the senses.

  There was no denying that he was connected in some way to this landscape, to these people. Which one are you, Khmer or French? a local monk had asked him once. It was the height of the dry season. Morel had taken shelter inside a pagoda to escape the hot sun, and the two men had got talking, sitting together on the cool marble steps. French, Morel had offered. But he’d thought of his mother as he said it and realized it was only half the truth. We Cambodians are less dispersed, less given to introspection than Westerners, the monk had said later. More pragmatic, then? Morel had asked. Yes, more pragmatic, the monk replied, laughing, but also ridiculously superstitious.

  No, nothing was simple here, Morel thought. You might think you had the measure of the place, until something came along to mess with your assumptions. Superstition and pragmatism, two sides of the same coin. The present, and the past, jostling for space. At a street corner, he saw a pair of saffron-robed monks, waiting for a chance to cross. Outside a half-built condominium, a billboard promised ‘a new city where human emotions are catered for and fulfilled’. The wide, Hausmannesque boulevards were a relic of colonial times, when the French introduced concrete buildings to replace a city of thatch and bamboo. But there were ostentatious signs of new money everywhere, most of it Asian.

  At the hotel, he had two messages from Perrin telling him to call as soon as he could. There was another message from Lila. He called her first. Given the time, he dialled her home number.

  ‘Have you spoken to Perrin yet?’ she said as soon as she realized who it was.

  ‘No. I thought I’d talk to you first.’ Morel updated her on everything he’d heard so far. ‘I’m struggling to form a clear picture of Hugo Quercy,’ he said.

  ‘That’s because everyone was so busy adoring him they never stopped to take a proper look at him.’

  ‘Not everyone idealized him.’ He told Lila about Julia de Krees and about the differences of opinion between Paul and Mariko Arda. The looks they had exchanged; Mariko Arda’s impatience with some of Paul’s comments. He told her about Adam Spencer and Kate O’Sullivan, who seemed to have been devoted to Quercy. And finally he gave her a summary of his difficult working relationship with Sarit.

  ‘It’s not surprising really, is it? Given that you’re intruding on his territory.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that necessarily. He doesn’t seem to want to be involved in the case.’

  ‘Maybe. But he still wants to know which way it’s going.’

  ‘That’s true. I think Quercy’s family connections are making him nervous. Making his superiors nervous, I should say. They don’t want this to turn into anything that could make the government look bad. Or, I should say, worse than it already does.’

  ‘What are they worried about?’

  ‘I’m not sure. That’s one of the things I intend to find out.’ Morel thought about what Pran had said about the land evictions, and Sarit’s obvious discomfort. Could Quercy have been involved in something that had nothing to do with his own organization’s work?

  ‘It sounds to me,’ Lila said, ‘like the Ardas knew Quercy best. You said Paul Arda was his closest friend, which means the wife probably has a pretty good idea of what he was like. Maybe she knows him better than her husband does.’

  ‘It’s possible. Arda is feeling pretty low and he tends to only talk about Hugo in glowing terms. He already has a history of depression. His friend’s death has hit him hard.’

  ‘I’d go back to the wife,’ Lila said. ‘By the way, I looked into the car crash. The one Quercy was involved in. Police records show he was driving the car when it hit the tree. The friend died on site. Quercy escaped with barely a scratch. Fits in with what Arda told you.’

  ‘Was he tested for drugs and alcohol?’

  ‘Yep. Nothing. He was clean. There was a witness too, who saw the dog and saw Hugo swerving to avoid it.’ She mumbled something.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing, I wasn’t talking to you.’

  Morel heard a voice in the background. It sounded familiar.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Lila said.

  ‘Give my regards to Akil,’ Morel said, smiling. He hung up before Lila could say something disagreeable in return.

  Next he dialled Perrin’s mobile number. His boss answered on the first ring.

  ‘About time, Morel.’

  ‘Sorry. I thought I’d wait until I had something for you. I’m afraid there’s nothing tangible yet, though.’

  Morel gave Perrin a similar account to that he’d given Lila, only more concise.

  ‘There may be a link to that paedophile list. Or there could be a political angle. It’s a vague feeling, nothing more at this stage. I’m looking into both possibilities,’ Morel said.

  ‘Vague feelings. That’s a big help. What am I supposed to tell the minister?’ Perrin asked. He sounded flat. Morel wondered just how much pressure he was under. It wasn’t like him to be subdued.

  ‘That we’re proceeding cautiously. Making sure we do this right. That we’ll let him know as soon as we find anything.’

  ‘Right. OK.’

  ‘Anything else I should know about?’ Morel asked. He realized that he hadn’t spoken with Jean, who was handling things in his absence, for a while.

  ‘Nothing Jean can’t handle. You just get on with the investigation there. Make sure it stays tidy.’

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? Morel thought.

  ‘It would be helpful if I could talk to Quercy’s mother. Or maybe Lila could do it?’

  There was a snort at the end of the line. ‘Lila Markov? You’ve got to be joking. Tact is what’s needed, Morel.’

  ‘Then I’ll call Quercy’s mother myself.’

  Perrin seemed to hesitate. ‘I’ll suggest that she should speak to you,’ he said. ‘Just be careful.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Don’t rock the boat. Don’t lead her into thinking her son was doing things he wasn’t supposed to, unless you’re absolutely sure. In fact,’ Perrin said, ‘even if you’re absolutely sure, think about what you want to tell her. We’ve got an economic crisis on our hands. We’ve got a presidential election coming up next year. It’s not the right time to be stirring things up.’

  Morel took his plastic raincoat and went for a short walk. He wanted to think and he would do it better outside than in a hotel room. When he returned, he found a message at reception from Sarit with Thierry Gaveaux’s details. He tried the home and mobile numbers from the phone there. Both went straight to voicemail.

  He hovered in the lobby, wondering how best to proceed.

  ‘Morel.’ He turned to find Paul Arda, looking a little better than the night before.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I had to take care of a few things.’

  ‘Of course,’ Morel said. This was Arda’s place of work, after all.

  ‘I was about to order coffee. Can I get you one? We can have it by the pool.’

  It would be a good opportunity to talk to Arda again, Morel thought.

  ‘That would be nice. Thank you.’

  ‘It must
be satisfying, owning a place like this,’ Morel said. ‘It’s a challenge,’ Arda said. The waiter placed two cups of coffee before them. They were sitting at a table near the pool. There were few people about.

  ‘I’m a detective. I can’t imagine what’s involved in managing a business like this one.’

  ‘No.’ Arda added a spoonful of sugar to his espresso and stirred it. ‘I’ve wondered many times whether it was the right thing for me to get into. I don’t really enjoy managing people. I don’t feel comfortable giving orders. But I do like being my own man.’ He looked at Morel. ‘I can’t imagine having to work for someone again. Being expected to turn up at a certain time, having to sit at a desk till five o’clock comes round, regardless of whether there is any work to do. I never liked the concept of a thirty-five- or thirty-seven-hour work week. It’s wrong. You can’t think about your job in terms of the hours you put in. It’s soul-destroying.’

  ‘I can’t say I disagree,’ Morel said. ‘But you and I are doing something we choose to do. Others less fortunate may see things differently. For most people, occupation isn’t a matter of choice.’

  ‘Sure. I’m not stupid, I know I’m privileged in many ways,’ Paul said. ‘Particularly living in Phnom Penh. Life is easier for us here than it would be if we were back in Europe. I don’t think Mariko’s cooked a single meal since we came here. Not once in all these years. It’s a pampered existence for Nora, too. She doesn’t even see it. The kids at her school, they spend their holidays in Europe, and here they have swimming pools, maids to pick up their clothes and chauffeurs to drive them around. They come and go as they please, because their parents tend to give them more freedom than they would back home. Believe me, I’m not blind. They’re spoilt rotten.’ He drank his coffee in one gulp. ‘And I’m spoilt too. I’ve been able to do things I wouldn’t even try to do in France. I can’t complain.’

  Morel nodded. He had grown up away from home, too. During his school years, he’d lived in Germany, Spain, Russia and Belgium, and these places were more familiar than France, where his family returned each summer. He’d been an expat child and he understood what Arda was saying. But the man looked so uncomfortable. Did he feel he had to apologize for the privileges his and Mariko’s lives afforded their family?

  ‘Do you think you’ll move back to France someday?’

  Paul snorted. ‘I’ll never go back.’

  Morel nodded. He finished his coffee and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Hugo’s colleagues at work. And to his wife, as you know. Tell me, what makes you so sure that Kate O’Sullivan and Hugo Quercy were sleeping together?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  ‘She says it isn’t.’

  ‘She would.’

  ‘I think she’s telling the truth.’

  Paul paused. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did you ever see them together? Acting as lovers, I mean?’

  Paul shook his head. He looked like a child who’d been caught lying. Both embarrassed and annoyed.

  ‘Did you resent the closeness between them? Is it because you feel protective towards his wife? She seems like a sensitive woman and she obviously loved her husband a great deal.’ Morel was trying to understand.

  ‘Maybe I just said that because I was pissed off. He had everything going for him. And it wasn’t enough.’

  Morel leaned forward. ‘Please explain.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to explain. He had an adoring wife and an adoring female colleague, and he took it for granted, like he deserved it all.’

  ‘Maybe he did. You told me yourself he was an impressive man.’

  Paul smiled. ‘I loved him, Commandant. But I’m also human.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Mariko and I have had our difficulties. I have often wondered why she’s bothered with me all these years.’

  ‘You’re hard on yourself.’

  ‘Some of us go through life crippled by fear and self-doubt, Commandant Morel. It’s just the way it is. You can’t change who you are. Hugo had the things I lacked. Charisma, confidence. The conviction that what you say and do matters. He had a sense of importance.’

  ‘Some might call that arrogance.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He toyed with his teaspoon. ‘You know, Hugo and I were competitors before we truly became friends. We liked the same girl. We both went out of our way to woo her. She picked Hugo, of course.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘I lost the contest. But then I gained a friendship that lasted throughout our student years and remained strong after that.’

  Before Morel could speak, Paul had looked up and seen someone. He stood.

  ‘Nora. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Mum’s not home. I was wondering if I could get some money? I’m meeting Jeremy.’

  Morel had stood up too and turned to see Arda’s daughter. He found it hard not to stare. Long-limbed and dark, she had her mother’s grace but she was a softer version of Mariko, her black hair long and straight down her back, her eyes a striking shade of grey.

  ‘Nora, this is Commandant Morel. He is helping the authorities find out what happened to Hugo.’

  Nora held out her hand. She had a rare kind of beauty, Morel thought. She also seemed on edge and he smiled, hoping to put her at ease.

  ‘Have you found out anything?’ she asked in French, not quite looking him in the eye.

  ‘It’s too early to say. We are working hard on it, though.’

  Arda drew a chair for his daughter and she sat down.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t really stay,’ she said, in English this time.

  ‘That’s fine.’ Arda took his wallet out of his pocket and handed over a few notes.

  ‘Thanks, Papa.’

  She stood and gracefully walked back the way she’d come.

  ‘There you go, a perfect illustration of the easy life expat kids have here,’ Arda remarked. ‘She got what she wanted from me and off she goes.’

  Morel smiled. ‘I think it’s a universal phenomenon with teenagers, isn’t it?’

  There was something the girl had said. Only later, when Arda had left and Morel was heading back to his room, did he realize what it was. Jeremy. That was the name of Nora Arda’s friend. The same name as the kid who’d stayed with friends at the Paradise Hotel to celebrate his eighteenth birthday the night of Quercy’s death. No reason to think it was the same Jeremy, but what if it was? He would check it out.

  When he got back to his room, the phone was ringing. He picked it up and heard an unfamiliar voice.

  ‘Commandant Morel,’ a woman said. ‘I am so glad I’ve managed to get hold of you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, who is this?’

  ‘Hugo’s mother.’

  ‘Madame Quercy,’ Morel said, surprised.

  ‘Have you found out what my son got himself into?’ she asked. There was no warmth in her voice.

  ‘We’re doing our best, Madame Quercy.’

  ‘My brother and I are grateful.’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to your son, madame?’

  There was a pause and he thought perhaps she was trying to recollect the exact day. But there was no hesitation in her reply.

  ‘It was in 2008. Just before he moved to Phnom Penh. He was in Paris. We met.’

  Three years ago? Morel thought he must have misheard.

  ‘We didn’t talk much,’ she said drily. ‘Have you found out anything?’

  Morel chose his words carefully. ‘Nothing of great significance yet. Is there something in particular you’re worried about?’

  He heard her clearing her throat.

  ‘Hugo made his own way. As soon as he became an adult. He could have gone into politics, you know. With his brilliance and charm. My brother would have helped him. But he wasn’t interested. He said . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He told his uncle that he despised his politics.’ She paused. ‘I always thought there was a problem with Hugo. He was always so angry.’

  ‘Fo
rgive me, but do you mean angry in general, or with you specifically?’

  ‘You don’t mince words, do you, Commandant? I can only speak of when he was around us. His family. I would think that is representative of how people behave the rest of the time.’

  Hardly, Morel thought. But he kept quiet.

  ‘When you say Hugo had a problem, what do you mean?’ Morel asked.

  ‘Look, I won’t beat around the bush,’ she said. ‘My brother and I believe Hugo was taking drugs.’ There was a great deal of contempt in her voice.

  ‘What sort of drugs?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Did you ever see him take anything?’ Morel said, trying to remain patient.

  ‘I saw how he behaved. Towards me. He was aggressive. I couldn’t talk to him. I assumed he was under the influence.’ She stressed the last words with a kind of harsh delight.

  Morel rubbed his face. He could hear Lila saying that with a mother like Bernadette Quercy, one might have no choice but to reach for mind-altering substances.

  ‘To be clear,’ he said, ‘you have no evidence to suggest that he was taking drugs?’

  ‘I have evidence of his behaviour, Commandant. Look, your commissaire tells me you intend to come to a conclusion in the next few days,’ she said.

  This was news to Morel.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Please do. My brother and I would like to close this chapter and move on.’

  A monster, Morel thought as he put the phone down. He found himself yearning for a cigarette like never before.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Antoine Nizet was running. He was past the pain now and moving at a steady pace, aware only of the sound of his breathing and the strength of his body.

  Hugo Quercy’s death meant nothing to him. But he was interested in the outcome of the investigation and was keeping a watchful eye over the case. He was careful not to overstep his role. An observer, that’s all he was. It would look strange if he got actively involved.

  Nizet ran, taking his usual route but going further. He wasn’t ready to turn back. When it poured, he ignored the rain. He ran through heavy traffic, weaving his way between frustrated commuters going nowhere, pounding the footpaths where people were running too, ducking for cover.