Love Songs from a Shallow Grave dp-7

by Colin Cotterill

  "That's right, he did."

  "And everyone left, apart from you."

  "What are you trying to say?"

  "That you were curious, so you went in and took a peek for yourself."

  "That's a lie. No, sir. I would never do that."

  "Is that so?"

  "It is."

  "Then, you see that up there?" Siri pointed to a box attached to one of the posts that carried the power cables.

  "Yes."

  "You know what that is?"

  "It's a junction box." The soldier was sweating.

  "Is it? You forget where you are. You've heard of the CIA, I assume?"

  "Of course."

  "Then you know what they're capable of. They're fanatical about surveillance. Every house in this compound has a camera and microphone trained on it. You see that lump at the bottom?"

  "It…it's a nut."

  "Of course it's supposed to look like a nut. It's a closed-circuit camera lens. The images are all fed back to a central console behind the scout hut. You're a TV star, my boy."

  Siri was holding his poker hand — six high — and he was calling. There followed a tense moment of silence.

  "I just wanted a quick look," the soldier confessed. Siri sighed but kept quiet. "I wanted to…you know? I was curious. I didn't…I didn't do anything."

  "But you removed the towel from her lap."

  "I just slid it down a little bit, that's all. And it slipped between her legs. I was about to put it back but I heard you all coming along the street. I barely made it out in time."

  "It was on her lap when you went in?"

  "Yeah, covering her…you know."

  "Yes, I know. Thank you."

  Siri sent the man back to the queue. He'd heard exactly what he was hoping for. If the towel had been on her lap when she was killed it would have been as bloody as hell. It would have soaked up several litres of blood. But it hadn't. The only explanation was that the killer had placed the towel across her lap after he'd killed her for modesty. It was a polite, very Lao gesture at the end of an horrific, very un-Lao murder. And it left Siri with no idea of what kind of killer he should be looking for.

  The doctor returned to the sauna and processed this new information as he sat on the wooden bench. He felt a presence in the little room, not vivid enough to be described as a visitation and several layers away from communication as if it stood behind five plates of opaque glass. But he was sure Dew's spirit was there. The girl who had died with a smile on her face and a question mark above her head was trying to get in touch but neither he nor she knew how to go about it.

  "If you have anything to tell me," he said quietly, "now would be a really good time."

  But, if she did, she kept it to herself and Siri, as frustrated by the spirit world as ever, walked out of the sauna and into a deluge of rain that darted accusingly like index fingers out of the black clouds. He could have taken shelter beneath the carport but it was full of soldiers so he jogged with blind conviction out of the gate and into the street. By the time he reached the house opposite he was already two kilograms heavier from the water soaked into his clothes. Beneath the porch roof a man in his early fifties sat on a breeze block with a broom leaning against the front door of the house beside him. Siri joined him and they both laughed.

  "Looks like it might rain," the man said. He was slight but muscular, with skin as brown as lacquered teak. A weather-beaten Vietnamese peasant hat sat on the balcony in front of him.

  "Rain? Feels more like ball bearings," Siri corrected him. They laughed again. Siri sat on the front step beside the man and squirmed in his wet underwear. "Been busy?"

  "Can't get much done in this weather," the man said. "The radio seems to think there are monsoons queued up like bicycle taxis just over the border,"

  Despite his appearance, the man spoke with a certain refinement and an almost unperceivable tinge of an accent. Siri recalled a conversation he'd had with the king before he was sent north. This man had a similar way about him, a modest class.

  "Is this your house?" Siri asked. It was an unnecessary question because the extended buttocks bushes were overgrown and knocking at the windows and the lawn grass was taller than the average goat. The man laughed.

  "No, sir," he said. "I work here at K6. I'm Miht. I look after the verges and the trees. Cut the odd lawn every now and then. I'd need a chainsaw for this one, mind."

  To Siri's ear, the word 'sir' had come reluctantly from the man's lips.

  "Been working here long?" he asked.

  "More than ten years now."

  "That long? So, you'd remember the good old American days."

  "That I would."

  "I thought that generation of Lao servants had all left along with the USAID people."

  "And you'd be right. The cooks, the housekeepers and drivers, most of them fled. But, to tell the truth, I didn't have anywhere to go. I was just a handyman around the place. I didn't work specifically for any family. I imagine the Pathet Lao didn't see me as a threat. There are half a dozen of us old-timers still working here."

  "They pay you?"

  "Rice ration, sir. Free room to sleep in. Can't complain."

  They chewed on sweet stems of grass and watched the restless Vietnamese soldiers opposite.

  "What a performance, eh?" Siri said.

  "You're with the police?"

  "No, brother."

  "Really? I thought I saw you arrive with the police."

  "And so you did. I'm the coroner, Siri Paiboun. They had me look at the body."

  "I see."

  "Did you know the people who lived in that house?" Siri asked.

  "A few passed through in my time."

  "Do you recall who it was that put up the sauna?"

  "Of course, the last couple, the Jansens. I was the one who found the wood for them."

  "What were they like?"

  "Nice enough. Husband was very keen. He was working on education projects, I seem to recall. She was just a housewife but she was kind, you know? Some of the wives of the experts got stuck into the gin but Mrs Jansen got involved with projects too. She helped out with scholarships, that kind of thing."

  "You seem to know a lot about them."

  "I got most of it from their house staff. I'm not much of a one for English language. I'd be out front trimming the trees and the houseboys and maids would come trotting down the driveways with all the latest gossip. I wasn't that interested but it passed the time."

  "How many staff did they have?"

  "They had a fellow that cooked for them. His wife would come in three days a week to clean. And there was a gardener who doubled as their night watchman."

  "Why do you suppose they built a sauna in the middle of the tropics?"

  "Mr Jansen was from Sweden or Iceland. Somewhere like that. He believed you couldn't get all the poison out of your system unless you had a good steam."

  "And everyone knew it was here?"

  "In those days they did. You couldn't keep a secret then. They tried to get the Lao staff to sample it but nobody was game. It seemed like a silly idea if you ask me. I can't imagine what a Lao girl was doing in there in the middle of the night."

  "Do you know if anyone else has used it since the Americans left?"

  "I can't remember seeing anyone over here at all. They didn't put any of their people in these houses by the external wall. They were afraid it'd be too easy to lob a hand grenade over. Not safe, they said. So they let all these places turn to jungle. As far as I know, none of the new regime people had any idea what it was. Just thought it was a box, probably."

  "Is there any way in and out of the compound apart from through the main gate?"

  "There used to be, brother. Just before the Americans left there were more holes than a mesh stocking. The staff used them to smuggle out equipment and furniture; parting gifts from the Americans before they were kicked out. But when the Pathet Lao boys moved in they patched up most of them."

&nbs
p; "Most of them?"

  "The old hands know of one or two places you could still get under the wall."

  "So it would be possible for someone without a pass to get into the compound."

  "Technically. You'd have to be careful to avoid the security patrols. Trigger-happy bunch. They'd probably shoot you before they asked who you were."

  5

  HALF A DOZEN MEN IN SEARCH OF A SMELL

  The interviews hadn't taken as long as Sihot and Phosy had imagined. The answers had all been so pat it was as if everyone had memorised them from an official circular.

  "I barely knew the girl."

  "Didn't talk to her."

  "I have no idea about her personal life."

  "She seemed like a good soldier"

  Phosy had noticed the bandage on Security Chief Phoumi's wrist and enquired about it. He was told it was a torn ligament from a motorcycle accident. The rest of his answers were brief and unhelpful. Only Major Dung, in that cocky style of his, had strayed from the script. Even the interpreter was annoyed by his responses to the questions.

  "Do you have any knowledge of the victim having an extra-marital affair?"

  "It wouldn't surprise me," Dung had said with a grin. "She put out enough signals."

  "Meaning?"

  "A lot of your Lao girls in uniform start to think like men. They like to put themselves around. Gather feathers for their caps."

  "Are you saying this from personal experience?"

  "I might have taken her up on it if I were younger…less fastidious."

  "She approached you?"

  Dung grinned and raised his eyebrow for the nth time. Phosy wanted to reach over and knock that eyebrow clean off his face.

  "She made it quite obvious she wanted me, yes."?

  The Intelligence Department jeep drove into the Electricite du Lao compound on Samsenthai and, after a brief chat with the guard at the gate, pulled up in front of the office of the chief engineer. As they drove, Siri had passed on his findings from K6 and listened intently to the results of the interviews. Before they climbed down into the deep puddles, he asked, "Did you find out why our playboy major sent soldiers over to Sixth Street in the first place?"

  "He said he got a call from the wife of one of the residents complaining about a strange smell," Sihot told him.

  "Did he say who?"

  "Said she didn't leave her name."

  "Convenient. So he sent half a dozen men in search of a smell?"

  "Does seem a bit much, doesn't it, Doctor."

  "And another thing. If you're called to a murder scene, your first reaction would be to go inside the room and confirm that the girl is, in fact, dead. According to the guard, Dung just took a look from the doorway, shut the door, and went in search of his boss."

  "It's possible the Vietnamese wasn't authorised to make that determination," Phosy suggested. "There might be some protocol involved."

  "Be worth checking on that, though," Siri nodded. "Then there was the peculiar incident of dragging me out of a perfectly good film and getting me to examine the body. And, once I'd confirmed she was dead, they decided they could handle the case and they couldn't wait to get rid of me. It could have been just them covering their rear ends when it came to filing the report. Or, there might be something more sinister going on."

  "I wasn't much taken with the security chief myself," said Sihot. "Now, there was a man with a secret if ever I saw one."

  They were disturbed by a tall man with greased-back hair who came down the front steps to greet them. He wore a spotless white shirt with sleeves folded to his elbows and a tight patent leather belt that seemed to divide him into segments like an ant.

  "Can I help you, Comrades?" he said.

  "Comrade Chanti," said Sihot, stepping down from the jeep and into a pool of water. He shook the man's hand and indicated to his colleagues. "This is Inspector Phosy of police intelligence and Dr Siri attached to the Ministry of Justice."

  They passed on their condolences to the husband of Dew and he suggested they go inside and out of the damned rain. Despite mumbling that he had a lot of work on his plate, he led them to the canteen where they ordered a thermos of tea and a plate of two-day-old Chinese doughnuts.

  Phosy took up the questioning where Sihot had left off. They had their tactics worked out.

  "Comrade Chanti," he said. "This morning we received transcripts of your wife's courses in the USSR. It appears she learned to fence while she was there."

  "She what?"

  "She learned to use a sword."

  Chanti looked surprised.

  "You didn't know?" Siri asked.

  "No." The man sipped at his tea.

  "She didn't tell you about her courses?" Phosy asked.

  "Not a lot," he replied.

  "You don't see her for four years and you aren't interested in what she studied?" Siri pushed.

  "I'm interested. Of course, I'm interested…"

  "But?"

  "She didn't get around to mentioning it."

  "How would you describe your marriage, Comrade?" Phosy asked.

  "If this is an interrogation I should be read my rights or something, shouldn't I?" Chanti said coldly.

  "I'm afraid the legislators haven't got around to giving you any rights just yet," Phosy countered. "So perhaps you could just answer the question."

  "No need to get defensive," added Sihot.

  "I'm not. I'm not being defensive. I'm just…I'm just upset."

  "Of course, you've just lost your wife," Siri sympathised. "It's only natural for you to be irritable."

  "I am not…All right. Yes. I suppose I am. I'm sorry. My marriage was…was a typical Lao marriage."

  "Really?" Phosy asked. "I thought in typical Lao marriages the husband goes out to work and the wife stays at home and looks after the children. The wife certainly doesn't run off for four years and leave her husband to look after two little ones."

  "I…"

  "How old are your children, Comrade Chanti?" Siri asked.

  "What? How old?"

  "Yes."

  "Five and…seven?"

  "You don't sound too sure," Phosy observed.

  "I'm certain."

  Sihot produced his notebook from his top pocket. It was bound in a large rubber band that he had trouble removing.

  "According to our files," he said. "Your children are six and eight."

  "What? Well, yes. That could be right."

  "You don't spend much time with your children, do you, Comrade?" Phosy said.

  "I see them."

  "But you don't live with them."

  "Her mother looks after them."

  "Her?"

  "Dew's. They stay there. I work long hours. I can't…"

  "You shouldn't have to," Phosy agreed. "It's a woman's job."

  "She had no right to abandon you with them," Siri put in. "How old was the youngest when she left? Two? My word. You must have had a lot of serious discussions about the implications before she left."

  "She didn't consult with me. Just announced she was going," Chanti said.

  "You know, I'd be really pissed if my wife pulled a trick like that on me," Sihot grumbled, half to himself.

  "It was demeaning," Chanti confessed.

  "I bet it was," Phosy agreed. "And finally she comes back and you think it might be all right. Everything might get back to the way it was. You could be together as a family again."

  "And then she moves in with her mother and the children and tells you she wants a divorce," said Siri.

  "You can't…" Chanti began. "Did her mother tell you that?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, it's not true. She didn't want a divorce. Just some time to think. We could have sorted it out."

  "So you thought," Siri said. "But then you find out she has a lover. After all that waiting, supporting her children…"

  "I…I didn't know."

  "Of course, you couldn't have been certain," Phosy kept up the attack, "but when she'
s been back only two months and tells you she has an assignment at K6 and she'll be working nights, staying out there…All those soldiers…"

  "How must you feel?" Sihot tutted and shook his head.

  "I wanted…"

  "Yes?"

  "I wanted it all to be over."

  "Well, it certainly is now," Phosy reminded him.

  "Not like that."

  "But, 'like that' is how it ended. A sword through the heart."

  "Look, you can't do this to me." There was a fire burning in Chanti's eyes. "It's not fair. Just leave me alone."

  "One final question, if I may, Comrade," Sihot asked. "Do you happen to know of a woman called Khantaly Sisamouth? Or you might know her better by her nickname — Kiang."

  "No," said Chanti.

  The three investigators looked at one another. When working for long enough in crime prevention, a policeman, even an amateur medical sleuth, learns to recognise the 'paradoxical no'. The paradoxical no is a cunning little beast because it has the appearance of a 'no', but it is clearly a 'yes' in costume. Comrade Chanti was lying to them.?

  What they all believed would be the final stop of the day was at the Sisangvone primary school. Although Monday classes hadn't been interrupted, the classroom which had been the scene of the previous day's murder had been sealed off and its children distributed to other rooms. The head teacher unlocked the door and stood back to let them in.

  "Do you always keep this locked when there's no class?" Phosy asked.

  The tall but undernourished teacher shook his head and a pencil fell out from behind his ear.

  "No," he said, bending to retrieve it. "Usually not. I put a padlock on it when the sergeant here told me to keep the children out." He started to unfasten the wooden shutters.

  "You aren't afraid of things being stolen?" Phosy asked.

  The head teacher laughed. "What's to steal? We've just the one set of books for the teachers, none for the children. We buy our own chalk and keep it with us." He fished out two sticks from his top pocket as evidence. "And the desks and chairs are so old they have French chewing gum stuck to the bottom of them."

  Siri smiled and shook the teacher's hand as he walked into the classroom. The lack of books evidently extended to a lack of paper and paint. The few pictures on the walls were drawn in pencil on flaps torn from cardboard boxes. The desks and chairs had been pushed against the walls leaving an empty space in the centre of the room. Once varnished, the wooden floor had now been buffed grey by generations of feet and scratched to high heaven by the shifting of furniture. This was a classroom with a history.