"Thanks you, Khun Marjorie. Lovely to see you." Suwit spoke English to a very acceptable standard and so Marjorie always spoke with him in her native tongue. She did speak acceptable Thai but only used it if she had to.
"Suwit, Gladys is coming today. You remember Gladys? Oh she is marvellous, she's eighty-three you know. So we must look after her, she doesn't walk so well these days."
"No problem, Khun Marjorie. My staff will look after her, it very fine."
"Oh you are an angel, now where are the pencils, Sapong!" Marjorie stomped off to locate her driver, Sapong, who had neglected to lay out pencils on each table.
Next to arrive was usually Linda Foxsmith-Taylor. Marjorie had never liked the cut of her jib, and certainly found the double-barrelled surname a ludicrous attempt to social climb and sound upper class. In the eyes of Marjorie Dubshott you couldn't get more lower-middle class than Linda Taylor. Linda may have married into money having met Simon Foxsmith, but she couldn't disguise what she was. Nouveau riche. Marjorie could never stand such characters. Linda had tried so hard to lose her Birmingham accent, but it wasn't easy, which led to some wonderful passive aggressive exchanges.
"Lurvly… oh I do adore your Brummie accent Linda, it's so real. It must have been fascinating living in little Birmingham." Dubshott never missed the chance to get a dig at Linda, and she always referred to her as Linda Taylor or Linda Foxsmith.
Gladys Suprawongse certainly was a remarkable character and not just because she was an eighty-three-year-old who still had the energy and vigour to get herself around Bangkok. She almost never missed the weekly women’s meet-ups. For Gladys it was more of a purely social event these days as her best bridge playing days were long gone. While she did still have a sharp brain she found her memory and concentration just weren’t up to serious bridge playing anymore, but did still dabble occasionally. She was treated as a distinguished dignitary by the other women, and rightly so. Gladys had just celebrated fifty years living in Bangkok, and was well known in hi-so Thai circles. She had caused quite a stir in her native Kent in the late 1960s when approaching thirty she announced not only that she was marrying a younger man but that he was Thai and thus she was emigrating to Thailand. Her young suitor Chanathip Suprawongse was studying at LSE in London for a master’s degree in applied economics before returning to Thailand to pursue a career in business and politics. His success was such that in the 1980s he had a spell as prime minister having been installed following one of Thailand’s military coups.
His family were even less happy about him marrying a foreigner. His father’s initial response was straightforward. “Absolutely out of the question. Enjoy this British woman and when you return home find a real wife, namely a Thai wife from the right sort of family.”
The phone lines to Thailand weren’t always clear from London but Chanathip had no problems understanding his father’s message. It took him months to convince his parents that he was serious and eventually after a few years in Bangkok, Gladys Knight (yes that really was her maiden name!) had charmed not just Chanathip’s family but the Bangkok social scene to the extent that she was a much sought after guest at hi-so functions. She had managed to slot neatly into upper class Thai life while also maintaining something of a down to earth way about her, which made her even more of a novelty. She even travelled on public transport, taking the Skytrain or underground MRT, which amused many of her friends.
“Oh, Gladys, you are an eccentric one!” Marjorie would often exclaim.
“Well, Marjorie, you’ve got to think about the environment these days. Absurd for me to be driven here when I can hop on the Skytrain for ten minutes.”
Thai people were likewise amused when they saw the octogenarian wife of a former prime minister travelling by public transport, but many admired her for it. Chanathip was a much-loved figure in Thai politics, despite some rumours that he’d turned a blind eye to human rights abuses that took place. He was recovering well after a cancer diagnosis just after his seventieth birthday and strangers who recognised her often enquired about ‘Khun Ball’, her husband’s rather bland nickname.
Gladys had been known for her cooking. Her specialities were her desserts and she had adapted many of her recipes to add a Thai flavour. Her famous chocolate cake had a gooey coconut filling and was usually topped with sliced mango; her British take on the Thai classic of mango and sticky rice. Her cookbook ‘Khunying Gladys’ Thai-British Classics’ still sold well some twenty years after publication. Gladys was one of the most popular women in the BWBLS and was almost universally loved by most people she met. Marjorie Dubshott despised her for it. She played along with the ‘isn’t Gladys marvellous’ line, but inside she seethed; bitter and just a little jealous. She longed to find just one person who would also see the irritating side to Gladys’s near perfectness, but alas, to date she had not. She was the only member of the BWBLS to have ever had the title ‘Khunying’ a grand title bestowed on the great and the good by the monarch each year. For Gladys to have earned that title, as a foreigner, was even more remarkable. It was rather like being a Lady or a Dame in Britain, but somehow in Thailand this was much more of an honour. Marjorie felt Gladys had a false modesty, at times proclaiming that she really wasn’t concerned with titles. At other times Marjorie had heard Gladys reminding people that she was in fact Khunying Gladys Suprawongse, before then adding, “Oh, I am only joking, of course you can call me whatever you’d prefer.”
EIGHT
Bob was sitting on Susie’s sofa, binge watching a TV series that he had already seen in its entirety, when he next got a message from Pim. The previous day he had successfully followed Brian to the language school where he worked, only to realise that he could have simply asked Pim to find it out for him and give him the address. However, he was pleased to have succeeded and he felt it was all good experience for this new career of his. Pim’s text to Bob was just to inform him that Brian had said he would be late home from work as he planned to have dinner with colleagues at the end of his teaching day. It was three in the afternoon when Pim texted, which Bob felt gave him plenty of time to be ready outside Brian’s workplace to follow him. Bob knew the language school game well and felt it was likely Brian would be working until after five. A core teaching time was the after school hours as many kids would be sent by their ever-ambitious parents for intense English lessons after a full day at school. Bob had worked for many years in such places where he’d teach all weekend and then on two or three weekdays he’d tend to work only from three pm until around six, or occasionally as late as eight. It suited Bob perfectly, he had the mornings to work off a hangover. On Saturday and Sunday he invariably had to start work at eight in the morning, which was sometimes hard going, though it was true that one of his genuine skills was his ability to function after a major drinking session. Nonetheless, if Bob had an evening off from the heavy drinking he’d always try to ensure it was a Friday or Saturday. Again, he liked this system as the bars would be a bit too busy for his liking on those weekend nights anyway. ‘It cramps the Lowe’s style’ as he’d told many an acquaintance over the years.
Bob Lowe was something of a bizarre contradiction, as were so many of Bangkok’s characters. On the surface he could be dismissed as a ‘Nana Dweller’; one who spent most of their time drinking in Nana’s seedy bars and enjoying regular paid-for sexual encounters.
Although the new Bob; Bob Lowe PI, was desperately trying to become a reformed character, it was still true that the Nana Dweller tag would have been accurate for most of Bob’s decade plus years in Bangkok. Bob seemed a simple stereotype to some; certainly he lacked social skills and logic, but scratch beneath the surface and you’d find someone with a considerably higher than average IQ who once had a promising future as an investment banker in the City of London. He quit it all for English teaching in Bangkok and he had presumed the years of heavy drinking and heavy antibiotic consumption (to tackle the inevitable STIs he regularly contracted), had deadened his intellect signi
ficantly, though he could still at times show flashes of the brains of the young man who graduated from one of the UK’s leading universities with a first-class honours degree. That would not be apparent to anyone who’d see him sprawled on Susie Hoare’s sofa in frayed boxer shorts, sweating profusely and struggling to change channels via the myriad remotes Susie had.
“Unfathomable,” he’d mutter to himself as he inadvertently turned off the digibox, in turn cutting off his series.
Bob took this as a sign that it was time to head to ‘work’ and follow Brian on his night out. He was fortunate that there was a small café which was a good vantage point for viewing the entrance to Brian’s workplace, so he could patiently watch the door and casually attempt to merge into the background. The language school didn’t look as most people would imagine a school, it was in fact situated in a ten-storey office block with the ‘XYZ Language School’ taking up most of the sixth floor. Brian emerged with two others shortly after six o’clock and Bob praised himself out loud for his accurate prediction. “Spot on again, Lowe!”
Bob followed the trio to the Skytrain and with a new found slickness he was able to smoothly follow them onto the train. Bob had purchased a pass known as a ‘Rabbit Card’ and charged it up with five hundred baht for a number of trips. Since Brian and his friends didn’t know Bob, he felt confident he could board the same carriage as them, and with standing room only he found himself within earshot so he could listen in to their conversation.
Of Brian’s two friends one was a little younger, possibly late twenties or early thirties and Bob used his skills to establish the younger man’s name was Paul. The other chap was heavily overweight and looked uncomfortable in a tight-fitting shirt and tie combo. His neck was trapped by the collar with some of his skin just squeezing out over the top. Bob hadn’t managed to ascertain his name so he scrawled fatty in his notebook. Brian seemed to be enquiring with Paul about his latest romantic conquest.
“Yeh, I may see her again. She could be possible relationship material, maybe,” Paul said confidently.
“Nice one, mate. I’ve told you before, get a regular one at home,” Brian responded.
“I mean, she clearly likes me. It’s not about money when she’s with someone like me. Of course, like most, she’ll do fat farang just for the money, oh er, sorry, mate,” Paul turned to fatty, “but with me it’s obvious that she is really into me.”
Fatty sighed, he’d clearly heard it all before. The conversation continued like this for a while and Bob chuckled to himself at what he considered Paul’s startling naivety. Bob scrawled in his notes against Paul’s name possibly first year in Bangkok; against fatty’s notes he’d written miserable, old hand, probably married.
They disembarked at Nana, which was no surprise to Bob. He really felt he was getting good at this PI lark. What did surprise him was that they headed in the opposite direction he’d expected and wandered down Soi 11, rather than Soi 4 – the beating heart of Nana’s bars and commercial sex industry.
The three strolled into an Indian restaurant. Bob examined the menu outside for a good five minutes while he could check that the trio were settled in and ordering a meal. Bob knew he’d have at least forty-five minutes before there was any chance of them emerging. He wandered the soi, popping in and out of every 7-Eleven. In one he’d buy himself some chewing gum. In another he made a ludicrous show of pretending they didn’t have what he wanted. What he did want was to take full advantage of the air conditioning, even though it was a relatively cool evening by the intense standards of Bangkok. He timed his return to the restaurant fairly well but still had to surreptitiously wait for ten minutes before the three friends exited.
Fatty hailed a taxi and Brian joked, “Back to the trouble, eh?!” Bob gave himself two metaphoric pats on the back and furiously ticked in his notebook. One for correctly predicting that fatty was a downtrodden married man but also Brian’s use of the cockney rhyming slang trouble (trouble and strife – wife) increased the likelihood that he was indeed a West Ham fan!
Bob followed Brian and Paul as they walked down Soi Nana and went into the absurdly named ‘Bar Bar Bar’. Bob followed and sat at the table next to them. He hadn’t been to ‘Bar 3’, as it was affectionately known by regulars, for a while and so he was enjoying the change of scenery. The music was a little noisy and Bob found it difficult to eavesdrop on Brian’s conversation so was subtly trying to shuffle his chair ever closer. After only about half an hour, and to Bob’s utter horror, Brian looked at him and spoke. “Alright, mate. I saw you on the BTS earlier, small world.”
“Eh? Who me? Really! On the BTS? Was I? I mean, I was, yes, yes. Good Lord. Remarkable. Oh yes, the BTS, wonderful system, always use it. Hardly a surprise you saw me.” Bob was stumbling his way through this, and luckily Brian interrupted him and invited him to join his table. Once he had calmed down, Bob realised this might actually be a great opportunity to learn more about Brian. He felt like one of those FBI agents going undercover in the mafia. Inside Bob was feeling incredibly excited.
They chatted in a relaxed way. A lot of small talk, assessing the quality of the girls in the bar. The next sticky situation for Bob was when one of the waitresses, Joy, came over to speak to him.
“Hello, Khun Bob, not see you long time, na.”
“Oh, Joy! Yes, you know me, I don’t drink often.”
Joy laughed at what she assumed was a joke.
“How your private police job?” Joy enquired.
“Anyway, lovely to see you, sweetie, run along Joy, three more beers for me and my new mates.”
The cat was out of the bag though, and Bob was going to have to use all of his limited supply of cunning.
Brian and Paul immediately asked about his police work.
“Oh yes, well I do a bit of PI work.” He then added in hushed tones, “You know I check out some of these girls for their boyfriends, make sure they’re not still working the bars.” Bob felt this was a suitable smokescreen. Though later he pondered why he didn’t say something boring like he was involved in analysing financial data for fraud cases.
“Really?! I’ve heard about this sort of thing. We better both take your number!” Brian smirked and nudged his mate Paul. Bob was getting in deep and after a few hours drinking, Paul and Brian both left with one of Bob’s DIY business cards.
NINE
It was just approaching dusk as Daeng sat down in his kitchen ready to enjoy one of his favourite meals; Khaw Man Gai – chicken with rice. Despite the simplicity of the dish it was as much a favourite for Daeng as it was with so many Thai people. He had been eating from the same stall on his soi for over twenty years. There was something really special about it and in particular the rich flavour of the clear soup that accompanied the main dish. Khun Tan who ran the stall was the master of the Khaw Man Gai as far as Daeng was concerned. He was treating himself to a mixture of half fried chicken and half steamed chicken, all perfectly sliced. He painstakingly prepared the meal back in his kitchen, as in opening all the containers. Chicken and rice on his plate. Two small bowls into which he poured the small bags of sauce (one sweet and one spicy) and finally a bigger bowl where he emptied the plastic bag tightly fastened and full of steaming soup. Daeng was aware of the modern complaints about the amounts of plastic being used, but he didn’t see how there was an alternative when Thai food required so many different accompaniments. He figured Thailand needed to be a special exemption when it came to a global campaign to decrease the use of these plastic bags and takeaway packages. Finally he added his special touch; he cut the accompanying cucumber into small chunks and dropped them into the warm chicken broth. He looked lovingly at this perfect ensemble and for a brief moment he understood why his two children both insisted on taking photographs of their food almost every time they ate! He almost took out his mobile phone and he chuckled to himself at the very idea. He also chuckled a bit more as he thought of the endlessly repeating conversations he’d had with Boom and Toon when they insi
sted on pointing their devices at their meals. Although he had noticed on the rare occasions that he cooked for them their phones remained firmly in their pockets. Then he’d change his tack.
“Oh, this meal you don’t want a photograph of to send to your friends!”
His kids would raise their eyebrows in unison. He smiled at this thought which quickly became a sigh and a grimace as there was a tap on his door just as he was about to taste the first bite of the delicious and glistening chicken and rice. He was even more irritated to see his son Boom at the door. Boom waied his father as a sign of respect, by placing his hands together as in prayer and lining his thumbs just below the nose, the higher up the face the more respect shown. “Hello, Dad,” he cheerily added.
“Why did you knock? I’m just sitting down to some of Tan’s Khaw Man Gai,” he admonished his first born.
“I was brought up better than to just burst into people’s homes!” Boom replied with a glint in his eye.
“Not by me, you weren’t!” The verbal rallying continued.
“Gin khaw ru yang?” Daeng enquired if Boom had eaten yet. As the words were exiting his mouth, Daeng knew this would end with him giving up his meal. He imagined the words of his beloved Ploy. “Let Boom eat, you can get Khaw Man Gai from Tan any day!”
Boom made a pretence of not wanting to take his dad’s dinner, but he knew the old man would insist. Luckily Daeng knew he could call Khun Tan and she would get one of her helpers to deliver a fresh portion.
“Hi, Tan, it’s Daeng here. Same again, please. Can someone deliver?”
“Oh! So hungry today!”
“Boom’s here.” No other words were needed and Tan giggled. Within ten minutes a young chap knocked on the door with a fresh helping and Daeng went through the same rigmarole of emptying it all out into bowls as his son tucked into his meal.
The Mysterious Case of the Missing Tuk-Tuk Page 4
