Death in the Rainy Season

by Anna Jaquiery

  Everything she knew, she found out through him. 2008 was election year in Cambodia. Hun Sen’s Cambodian People’s Party had eased back into power for another five years. The bully still ruled the playground and no one was surprised. Meanwhile, tempers were flaring up again between Thailand and Cambodia over ownership of a temple in Cambodia’s Preah Vihear Province, set to join the list of World Heritage sites. On the world stage, these events slid under the radar mostly unnoticed. One thing Florence had realized without Hugo’s help: importance was a matter of perspective. In Paris, you could make yourself believe that Europe was the centre of the universe. Once they left, their perspective would quickly shift; Europe seemed distant and small.

  They arrived in Phnom Penh on a hot, dusty day, with two suitcases. April, the hottest time of the year. They dumped their luggage in the empty house that had been assigned to them and went for a walk, without a map and with no idea where they were going. Negotiating the footpaths was tricky: you had to watch your step if you didn’t want to trip over a vendor’s wares or trample on a basket of offerings. You had to be vigilant, but how could you be anything else in a city that hummed with life?

  They managed to walk all afternoon, despite the heat. Every once in a while they stopped to buy cold drinks from a shop or a stall. By the time they got home on the first day they were drenched with sweat and covered in a layer of grime. They showered and collapsed into bed, falling asleep within seconds.

  Kate had picked them up at the airport that day. She had come running in, just as they were about to give up and take a taxi, though they didn’t know where they were supposed to go. It hadn’t occurred to them that they might have to fend for themselves, Kate had been so insistent on the phone about driving them. Flushed and apologetic, Kate had hugged them both. She had a way of addressing you that was intimate, even when you didn’t know her.

  Florence started to feel anxious again and forced herself to focus her thoughts elsewhere. What had the French policeman said? When she had asked him that question, about Hugo, he had said a funny thing, not exactly the sort of response you expected from a policeman.

  Trust your heart. Commandant Morel’s words stayed with her. She had no choice but to follow his advice. It was either that or go crazy imagining the worst scenarios. She told herself over and over that Hugo had loved her. He must have remained loyal.

  That first day in Phnom Penh had been enough. They’d both experienced a sense of recognition, even amongst the unfamiliar scenes that confronted them at every intersection, at the end of every alleyway. At a traffic light, they had stood next to a little girl and her even younger brother, holding hands and waiting to cross. Where were their parents? So many children everywhere, fending for themselves. Next to the two urchins, a monk stood impassively, holding a food tin, and an umbrella as protection against the sun. Waiting for the light to turn red, Florence had looked up at her husband. That look on his broad, eloquent face. She’d never seen him so jubilant.

  ‘This feels right,’ he’d told her. She would come to hear it many times. For her, it would take longer, but she too would come to feel the same.

  The first sense of it, for her, was on a motorcycle trip across the country. She and Hugo had driven for hours. Past rice paddies dotted with sugar palms, scattered villages and isolated pagodas. Roadside stalls sold the white lotus flowers used as offerings, and traditional, colourful kites. At night they stood in the shower together, recounting the day’s events. The red clay from their bodies pooling at their feet. The discovery of a new world.

  Sometimes, they had stopped on the roadside. For no other reason than to take a moment, breathe in the landscape. Florence had photographed everything, but some things could not be captured by a camera lens. The changing light in a patchwork of rice paddies and fields. The tinkling of bells in the distance, where men led water buffaloes ploughing the fields, the men’s scarves worn like turbans around their heads. Hugo had held her hand and kissed the top of her head. When he spoke his voice shook.

  ‘We’re going to be happy here, I can feel it.’

  She looked around the chaotic room. Paintings still hung on the walls. This was once our life. A happy, full life. But without you, it amounts to nothing. Time to go. She wanted – was ‘wanted’ the right word? – had to go back to France. Nothing left here except grief and absence. Look forward, don’t look back. Need to think about this baby now. For the first few weeks, perhaps, she would stay with her parents. There was no other way, though she dreaded the thought of her childhood home with its neat little back garden and stuffy rooms, filled with the knick-knacks she had always suspected her mother bought just to annoy her father. Revenge for every Sunday he headed off to the golf course and disappeared for hours, leaving her stranded and unhappy.

  Hugo had lifted her out of there, rescued her from the pettiness that was all she knew, and given her this.

  And here she was, about to return to the provincial town she came from and the narrow confines of her parents’ loveless union. No, she would not let herself be trapped along with her baby in a situation she had managed to escape. The two of them would have to find a place of their own.

  ‘You and me,’ she told her unborn child. ‘That’s what it’ll be.’

  She stood up with effort and went to the kitchen to make herself a hot chocolate. She hadn’t had anything for dinner and she wasn’t hungry. But there was the baby to consider. Once her drink was ready, she took it with her up the stairs. Even though it was only 8 p.m., she was exhausted. Time to go to bed and try to sleep.

  Before entering her room, she hesitated. She looked down the hallway. Monday morning she had woken up and found those muddy prints along here, leading to Hugo’s study. Mariko had come and cleaned them up. Someone had gone in, she said. But everything looked tidy.

  She would have to see for herself whether anything had been taken. That was what Mariko, in a gentle voice, had said. We could do it together, when you’re ready. But the truth was she probably wouldn’t know if something was missing. She had hardly ever gone in there. It had always been his private space.

  She took a few steps down the hallway and stopped outside the door. For a moment, she could almost believe that Hugo would open it and appear before her, intact. They would go on as before, and these dreadful days would be erased from her memory.

  Shadows seemed to gather all around her. She wanted to move, but her feet were frozen to the ground. Her heart was galloping and she willed it to slow down. She thought about the baby. It seemed to work. She reached for the door handle, then started violently. Downstairs, the dog was barking, and someone was knocking on the door.

  She was wearing a white T-shirt that could have belonged to her husband, and pyjama trousers. Morel was struck once again by her youth. Standing there before him she looked fragile and he wondered how she would cope on her own, with a child to raise.

  ‘I hope it’s not inconvenient. I was on my way back to the hotel and thought perhaps I might stop by. May I come in?’

  He could see her hesitate, wonder whether she could send him away politely, ask him to come back another time. But she was too well-mannered to turn him away.

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She turned the lights back on, and invited him to sit down. She looked down at her cup and then back at Morel. ‘Can I offer you something to drink? I could make you a cup of coffee or a hot chocolate even. It’s what I’m having.’

  ‘A cup of coffee would be nice.’

  ‘Something to eat as well? I have some leftover pasta.’

  He realized now that he still hadn’t eaten.

  ‘I’m going to accept,’ he said. ‘I’m absolutely famished.’

  He could see that somehow this put her at ease. She warmed up the food and brought it to him. He ate while she made coffee. Once he’d finished, she took his plate and handed him the cup before taking a seat across from him.

  Morel hesitated, wondering where to sta
rt. ‘Look, I wanted to ask you something. Someone delivered this to my hotel this afternoon. I’d like to know whether you recognize the handwriting.’ He handed it to Florence. ‘I think it might be your husband’s.’

  She looked at the scrawled notes in an untidy hand and nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She smiled at Morel. ‘This is Hugo’s dreadful handwriting. No doubt about it.’

  ‘Please forgive me if any of my questions seem insensitive. I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Did Hugo take drugs? Marijuana, cocaine, anything like that?’

  Florence looked puzzled. She shook her head.

  ‘That’s a strange question. Hugo hated anything like that. Even as a student, he wouldn’t go near a joint. He said he hated anything that might make him feel like he wasn’t in control. Who’s saying he took drugs?’

  ‘His mother’s convinced he was a drug addict.’

  ‘His mother’s convinced he’s the devil incarnate,’ Florence said calmly. ‘They never got on. She’s a bit of a basket case.’

  ‘I was thinking that perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing me again where the footprints were. Which way your intruder went.’

  ‘I hate thinking about it,’ she said. ‘But I’ll show you. Follow me.’

  She walked ahead of him and he followed right behind her, as though they were playing a game. Follow the Leader. Simon Says.

  ‘They didn’t go in a straight line. I’m afraid I don’t remember the exact configuration.’ Here she faltered, stopped and looked around the living room.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Morel reassured her. ‘I’m interested in whether he – or she – stopped in all the rooms.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘We have no idea who it was at this stage. I’m keeping an open mind,’ he said lightly. He was trying to make things easier. To make her forget that she was walking around her house at night with a stranger, to retrace a pattern of muddy footprints.

  ‘They went upstairs?’ Morel asked. It was a statement rather than a question. He already knew that the intruder had been there. Florence nodded. She led him up the stairs, past her room.

  ‘No footsteps in your room.’

  She shivered. ‘No.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then he – the person – went into Hugo’s study.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘I hardly went in there,’ she said.

  ‘All the more reason to go in now. Hugo would want to know who violated his sanctuary.’

  She nodded. This time he went ahead of her, pushing the door gently and stepping into the room. It was small and cramped, but Hugo Quercy had clearly made it his own. His diplomas hung on the walls and there were photographs of him with various politicians and celebrities. Morel recognized at least one famous movie star.

  ‘Where did the footprints end?’

  ‘Mariko said they were everywhere in here.’

  ‘Near the desk?’

  Florence nodded.

  ‘Do you mind if I look in the drawers?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You think the person who came that night took the folder then?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s just an idea I have. The fact that the person who delivered it to me didn’t want to identify themselves makes me think they don’t want to share how they got their hands on it.’ He turned to Florence. ‘Do you know whether anything might be missing from this room?’

  She shook her head. ‘Like I said, I hardly ever came in here.’

  ‘Did Hugo ever let anyone else in? While he was here, I mean.’

  She was thinking, trying to remember. ‘Nora,’ she said.

  ‘The Arda girl?’

  ‘Yes. Mariko’s daughter. Hugo wanted to help her with her studies. She was interested in his work. I think she admired him. He thought he might be able to influence her. Paul and Mariko worried that she wasn’t doing well at school. Hugo was giving her tuition, once a week in the evenings. Often she ate with us afterwards before he dropped her home.’

  ‘I thought he didn’t drive?’

  ‘He didn’t. He took her back in a tuk-tuk, made sure she got home safe, then came back.’

  ‘Why didn’t Paul pick her up? Or her mother?’

  ‘Hugo didn’t mind doing it. He liked Nora. So do I,’ Florence added. ‘She’s a lovely girl. Takes after her mother.’ There was a great deal of warmth in her voice and Morel found himself puzzling again over Florence’s friendship with Mariko.

  ‘Are you and Mariko Arda good friends?’ he couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I love Mariko very much.’

  ‘So your husband and Nora talked in here, about her schoolwork? Then she sat on her own doing it? What was the usual routine?’

  ‘Hugo would sit with her for forty minutes. Sometimes a little more, sometimes less. Usually sometime between six and seven in the evenings, when he returned from work. Then he would come downstairs and she would finish her work. Either a school assignment or something Hugo assigned. He was a patient teacher. We ate together around eight. Hugo took her home after that.’ She looked at Morel. Her eyes were clear, untroubled. ‘I think she liked it. It was a place away from home, and Hugo treated her like a grown-up.’

  Morel considered this. He sensed that she would start to wonder if he continued with this line of questioning. He decided it was best to move on.

  ‘Would you mind if I spent just a little longer in here? In case I missed anything.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  While he opened drawers and looked through the shelves where books and papers were piled up, Florence sat on the chair behind the desk and watched.

  ‘Did Hugo talk about the land evictions at all?’

  Florence let out a little laugh. ‘Of course! Hugo talked incessantly about what was happening here. Land evictions are a big problem so that came up a few times.’

  ‘Did you know he was talking to people about their experiences? Doing investigative work?’

  She looked worried. ‘I didn’t. And I don’t know why he would have been doing that.’

  ‘I understand that Kids at Risk had a good working relationship with the government,’ Morel said. He perched himself on the edge of Hugo’s desk and looked at Florence, sitting in Hugo’s chair. She was leaning back to give her belly more space. Now that they were no longer talking about the footprints, she seemed more relaxed.

  ‘Hugo always said you had to have a good working relationship with the leadership if you wanted to influence change.’

  It was exactly what Adam Spencer had said during the interview. Funny, the way they all ended up parroting Quercy’s words.

  Morel thought about the green folder. Had Hugo Quercy raised his concerns about the land evictions with anyone in the government? Had he lobbied officials, tried to use his influence in some way? If so, he would have made himself unpopular, Morel guessed. He would have to confront Sarit with this line of enquiry.

  He looked at Florence again. She was staring at the desk, her lips pursed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Only . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I remember Hugo kept a stone on his desk. At least it was there last time I came in here. Perhaps he moved it somewhere else.’

  ‘What kind of stone?’

  ‘It’s dark, and rather large. We picked it up on a beach in Brittany many years ago. We were so happy there. The stone was special. It was a memento of that trip.’

  For a while, they searched for it together. There was no sign of it anywhere.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Florence said. ‘He wouldn’t have thrown it away.’

  Morel saw that she was close to tears.

  ‘I’m sure it will turn up,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it for now.’

  They left the room and Florence closed the door gently behind them.

  ‘Is that all?’

  She looked at him and Morel saw something in her eyes. A flicker of fear.

&nb
sp; ‘You mustn’t be frightened,’ he said.

  ‘It’s hard not to be scared, after what happened to Hugo.’

  At first she hadn’t wanted him there, but now he could see that she was reluctant to let him go. He guessed the prospect of being alone again was not a happy one.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of another coffee?’ he asked.

  She smiled.

  An hour later, Morel shut the door to Florence and Hugo’s bedroom. Florence had yawned several times while he drank his coffee. He’d suggested she go to bed and that he let himself out once he’d finished his drink.

  ‘Will you stay till I fall asleep?’ she’d asked. ‘I know it sounds childish and it’s a lot to ask. I wouldn’t normally . . . it would help me if you did.’

  ‘Of course. It’s not a lot to ask and I would be happy to.’

  After she said goodnight and climbed the stairs to her room, he sat in the dark, listening to the night. When the rain started, so did the bullfrogs, with a deep, rhythmic chanting. Morel pictured them squatting under a canopy of dripping leaves, their throaty call an ode to the rain.

  He waited half an hour before climbing the stairs to Florence’s bedroom and looking in. He imagined the intruder doing the same thing. Checking that she was asleep. Had that person known that she would be alone? They could only have known if they had been responsible for Quercy’s death, or been aware that he was dead. And if the intruder wasn’t the killer, then why had they come for the folder?

  Either way, the thought of Florence Quercy’s late-night visitor made Morel uncomfortable. The idea of someone creeping through the house, walking through the rooms, picking things up while she slept.

  There were two things he needed to do first thing in the morning. Talk to Sarit about the land evictions. And question Adam Spencer once more. They were both holding something back.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Back in his hotel room for the second time this evening, Morel poured himself a cognac. His shoulders and back were stiff and he needed a shower. But he’d make the calls first.