"Krishna save us, Bhiku," smiled Siri. "I look forward to the day when we can just shake hands and dispense with all this bowing and scraping. You outweigh me by several sacks of rice. It looks silly."
"Yes, sir. Worth is not decided by weight, Doctor. If that were so I should be kowtowing to every buffalo I meet."
"Come and sit…and not on the floor."
"I am an honoree."
Siri forced him onto the chair and glanced at the doorway to satisfy himself that his mother hadn't been crushed back to life by the big Indian. There was no trace of her.
"I have some tepid tea," said Siri, reaching for the thermos.
"I have already indulged, thank you."
"I haven't seen your son, Jogendranath, for several days. My wife and I are worried. With all this rain and nowhere to sleep…"
"Ah, yes. My son has found a dry place to sleep. Thank you. That's what I'have come to tell you."
"You've seen him?"
"I see him every night," Bhiku smiled. "He curls up like a civet cat beneath the canvas which covers my cooking area at the rear of the restaurant."
Siri raised his eyebrows.
"He sleeps at your restaurant? That's marvellous."
"Most nights, now. Yes. He is reminiscent of a small animal sheltering from the rain. Life to a street son like mine must be very unpleasant if there is no star-filled sky to pull over you when you go to bed. He has not yet built up the confidence to eat the food I leave out for him or to come inside out of the wind, but he's there often. I like to sit on the back step watching him sleep."
"Has he spoken?"
"Sadly, Doctor, my poor son is still mute. But in his dreams the spirits speak through him. I hear them sometimes. In his dreams there are words."
Siri smiled, delighted.
"With just a little more faith, friend, I wouldn't be surprised if you could reach in and pull out those words, bring him back his voice," he said.
"Would that it were so."
"One rung at a time, Bhiku. One rung at a time."
The Indian hadn't been gone more than five minutes. Siri had begun to pack his cloth shoulder bag. The words from his mother still hung at his neck. "Don't go, Siri." He was walking absently towards the door when a third unexpected visitor appeared there. Colonel Phat was tall and gaunt. He smiled warmly with the few teeth he had. He was the Vietnamese advisor at the Ministry of Justice. He and Siri had become close since his arrival in Vientiane. Their opinions of Judge Haeng's suitability for his position had dragged them together.
"Brother Siri," Phat said as he walked into the office.
"Phat, did you lose your way? I've never seen you near the morgue before."
"Just pacing out those final steps."
"And they lead you here? Are you expecting a violent death, brother?"
"A knife in the back. It's a feeling I've held since I first arrived at Justice."
Phat walked past Siri and sat on a chair, ignoring the fact that the doctor was clearly on his way home.
"I only have cold tea to offer," Siri said, returning to his desk.
"I come as a harbinger of doom," said Phat.
"That's a pity. I was planning on having a good-news-only day. Are you sure it can't wait till I come back from Cambodia?"
"That's the point, brother Siri. I am here to strongly recommend that you don't go there."
"I think the trip's all booked and paid for."
"Then, come down with something that makes it impossible for you to travel. And tell your friend Civilai to do the same."
"What on earth for?"
"Dr Siri, what exactly do you know about what's happening in the swamp they call Kampuchea?"
"Not much. The orientation only took half an hour. Most of it was read from some sort of travel brochure. Then they gave us an itinerary and a summary of the Red Khmer manifesto. It looked a lot like ours."
He didn't bother to mention the warning he and Civilai had been given that they might get some subtle pressure from the Vietnamese not to go. Hanoi had mentored the fledgling Khmer Rouge and encouraged its overthrow of the corrupt Khmer royalists. But its plan to have Laos and Cambodia sit at its feet like tame naga dragons had been thwarted by the new revolutionary leaders in Phnom Penh. It was no secret that the Khmer and the Vietnamese had long since separated on ideological grounds, but, since the beginning of the year, the war drums had been beating on both sides of the border. Once an ally, Cambodia, now Kampuchea, had become a threat. Phnom Penh was drifting closer to China, just as Vietnam drifted further away from the big Red mother ship.
"We are hearing terrible things from Khmer refugees at our borders," Phat said. "I am seriously concerned for your safety, Comrade."
"Refugees have a habit of saying what they think their saviours want to hear. I wouldn't worry about it."
Phat rose. He seemed to be offended by Siri's attitude.
"I came here on my own time and against the wishes of my embassy. I came out of friendship with a sincere warning."
Siri wondered whether Civilai was encountering his own delegation of Vietnamese friendship ambassadors.
"I appreciate it," Siri said. "But, I think it's too late to get out of it, Comrade." He stood and held out his hand to Phat. "But thank you for the warning. It was good to see you again."
Phat didn't return the handshake.
"It's far more than a warning, Siri. Putting a man with your character in Phnom Penh at this time is like dropping petroleum on a bush fire. If you go to Kampuchea you will burn, Siri Paiboun. Trust me."
He turned and walked out.
Siri had never seen him like this. It had been an impressive and — he had to admit — an unnerving visit. The Vietnamese certainly knew how to squeeze. The colonel's words were still on his mind as he put the welcome mat inside and locked the front door. And the old woman's voice telling him not to go. He liked his omens in threes. One more and he'd call in sick and let Civilai go by himself. All by himself to sample the fine wines and tasty Khmer food. The beautiful Khmer women. The charm of Phnom Penh. The memory of walking along Boulevard Noradom with Boua. The smiles of the locals. The music. What was a little prophecy of doom against all that?
A voice from across the flooded hospital grounds reached him through the drizzle.
"Feel like a drink?"
Cast in silhouette against the gaudy strip lights of oncology, Phosy stood astride his Vespa in a foot of water. Siri took off his sandals, rolled up his trouser legs, and waded to the inspector.
"I thought you'd given it up," Siri told him.
"Just saving myself for Lao new year and very special occasions," Phosy smiled. Siri hadn't seen him in such a good mood for a very long time.
"Well, new year came and went without anyone noticing," Siri said. "So what's the occasion?"
"Another solved case."
"You haven't…?"
"We have. Not only do we have our fencer, we have irrefutable connections to each of the victims and to the three crime scenes. It's all over." He shook the doctor's hand. "Congratulations."
There were fewer and fewer places to drink of a night in a city whose sense of muan — of innocent pleasure — had been slowly wrung from it by two and a half years of socialism. The logical hot spots were roofless snack and drink stalls along the riverbank and, as long as that one unstoppable April shower persisted, they would remain closed. There was the Russian club, a bustling, beery night-eatery populated by Eastern European experts. But that was beyond the budget of a Lao policeman and a Lao doctor. So Siri and Phosy took their drinks under an umbrella at Two Thumb's humble establishment behind the evening market. They drank rice whisky and worked through a plate of steamed peanuts in soft shells. Siri knew he should have been packing, spending the night with Madame Daeng, but she'd always understood the power of celebration, particularly when victory was the prize.
"If we'd only checked sooner," Phosy said. "Or if one of us had remembered the names on the lists. But, why wo
uld we? We were only interested in the team leader on the rewiring project. I doubt we gave the other names on the Electricite du Laos work roster more than a cursory glance. But I'd arrived at the name Somdy Borachit on the subscriptions list and I read it out loud. And Sihot had just worked out his schedule to interview all the electricians on his list and he asked me how it was spelt. And, sure enough, it was the same name. We had him: Somdy Borachit, who everyone knew by the nickname of Neung. We drove over to Electricite du Laos and he was there, calm as you like. Confident. And I asked him if he had an acquaintanceship with the three victims and he admitted he did. No pretence at all. He came straight out with it."
"That he'd killed them?"
"That he knew them all. I asked why he hadn't come forward when he heard about the killings and he said, "It's complicated." Complicated? You bet it's complicated. We took him to HQ and questioned him. And it was as if every answer he gave tied him tighter and tighter to the murders. It was as if he didn't understand the implication of what he was saying. Everything in this case points directly to him. Every damn thing."
"He didn't have an alibi?"
"Claims he was babysitting his son all weekend. His wife was off at a seminar. It's just one more story that doesn't work."
"Start at the beginning, Phosy."
"All right. You'll never guess who Neung's father is."
"Then, tell me."
"Miht, the groundsman at K6. And when the Americans were still there he used to go to help his father with the gardening work."
"So, he would have met young Jim there. Attractive girl. Got chatting…"
"He admits it. Said he knew her before he went off to study. And where do you suppose he takes his scholarship course in electrical engineering?"
"East Germany."
"Precisely where Jim was headed. And he studied not two blocks from her school. Amazing coincidence? I don't think so."
"So, he could have been the mystery man who hounded her there. Followed her to Berlin then stalked her."
"Forcing her to come home early," Phosy went on. "He returned at about the same time. Which brings us to victim number two, Kiang. It's easier to do this in reverse order. In the beginning he told us he'd met Kiang at the government bookshop and they'd chatted about being overseas and he said he'd never seen her outside the reading room. Never socialised with her. And it was so obvious he was lying even Sihot could read it. I was so certain we had our killer I decided I could push as hard as I liked at that stage. But Neung didn't take much pushing. As soon as the word 'murder' came up in the interview, he admitted that he and Kiang were…'dating', I think is what he called it. I asked him why he'd lied and he said he hadn't wanted word to get back to his wife. His wife? Can you believe it? He's got a wife and a child and he's dating. And it doesn't seem like killing the girl was nearly as important as his wife not finding out."
Phosy's reaction surprised Siri but he decided that matter could wait.
"And is the school connected? The scene of the murder?" Siri asked.
"Is it ever! It's where he went to school, Siri. It was his own classroom. He pinned his dead girlfriend to the blackboard he'd copied notes from for seven years. This is a very sick character, Siri."
"How's he taking it?"
"You know how they are. Denying this. Denying that. He had himself in tears at one point."
"So he hasn't actually confessed to anything?"
"He's denied killing them but there's no getting away from the fact he knew them all. He met the wife of his boss through work. I wouldn't be surprised if he was 'dating' her as well. And get this. The syrup on the shaved ice is that our comrade Neung was a fencing star. He was the champion on the university team while he was in Munich."
"No, wait. How long was he there? Two…three years? How do you get to be a champion in so short a time?"
"You don't. He was already an expert before he left Laos. He learned from childhood from his own father."
"Miht, the groundsman?"
"His father had grown up in a boys' orphanage in Vietnam run by French priests. They had an extensive programme of sports organised for the boys to keep them on the straight and narrow. One of the priests had been a fencing champion and he trained the most promising of his students in sword-play. It appears Miht was the star pupil. If the opportunity had come up he might have even been good enough to compete in Europe, but the war put paid to those plans. Miht came to Laos and put all of his efforts into teaching the skill to his son. Neung had the same natural flair as his father. The old man has a collection of swords at his home."
Siri thought back to his relaxed conversation with the groundsman. His confident air. He recalled how the fellow had observed the crime scenes so intently. Siri wondered whether he'd known something. Whether he suspected his son might have been involved. Surely, when he discovered that the weapon was an epee…
"It does all seem to fit together," Siri agreed, pouring the last of their half-bottle into the glasses.
"Seem? It's a perfect fit, Siri. Your Judge Haeng is so pleased about it he's decided to make this his first open court murder trial."
"Wait! He's what? We don't even have a constitution. How the hell can he run a murder trial without laws?"
"Not sure, but he's got the go-ahead from the minister and a couple of the politburo. A lot of people have been upset about all the killing that's been going on lately. I get the feeling they want the country to know that justice is being done and criminals aren't going to get away with it."
"When's the trial?"
"Next Tuesday."
"That soon?"
"It is pretty open and shut, you have to agree."
"There's no physical evidence, Phosy."
"You mean, no fingerprints?" Phosy laughed.
"I mean no nothing. No eye witnesses, no blood matches, no connected murder weapon, no confessions — no nothing. But I suppose none of that matters if there's no law. That doesn't concern you?"
"Come on, Siri. There's so much circumstantial evidence you'd have to be a halfwit to think he was innocent."
"It's called circumstantial because circumstances happen to coincide. And it's almost as if he's gone to a lot of trouble to point every finger at himself, circumstantially. But it isn't proof. What was your impression of him, Phosy?"
"My what?" Phosy was getting frustrated.
"As a person. What did you feel? How did he affect you?"
"Siri, you're taking all this philosophical psychological bunkum a bit too far. This is a murderer."
"All right, forget psychology. What does your gut tell you? Your policeman's instincts. You've met enough killers in your life. What did your gut tell you after a day with Neung?"
"You really want to play this game?"
"Humour me."
"All right, I felt he's very cool. That he knew we had all this evidence against him and he was smart enough not to lie about any of it. He was convincing as an actor. But men with the ability to plan and execute cold-blooded murder would have the ability to convince others…"
"Did you like him?"
"Some of the worst villains are likeable, Siri."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
"Right. Is anyone representing him in this play trial?"
"I assume there's somebody."
"In a land without lawyers?"
"The military, probably."
"The military conduct court martials and executions. This is a completely different thing. This is no war trial. This is an affront to democratic principles. This is a chance for the public to see Marie Antoinette's head roll."
"Who?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Siri, slow down. You sound as if you're on his side. What are you playing at?"
"Not playing at all, Phosy. Looking at all the facts, I'd probably agree that he's as guilty as the devil himself. Anybody would. Which is no doubt why Judge Haeng selected this as his opening number. Easy. No complaints. An evil killer gets what's
coming to him. Accolades all round. The only loser here is justice. The rightful course of law. Without that we have nothing to believe in."
"What would you do, Siri? Lock him up till the constitution's finished? He could be an old man by then."
"Good point. Can I see him?"
"Who?"
"The accused."
"What for? Why? When? You have to be at the airport by six."
"How about now?"
Phosy laughed. Siri was staring at him with those emerald-green eyes. No smile. No bluff.?
At the doctor's insistence, Phosy let him walk back to the cells by himself. Neung sat on the wooden bench, his slumped frame diced by the shadows of the metal mesh of the prison bars. He was long-limbed, a strongly built young man, but his face was soft, the type a woman would find more attractive than a man. It was the face of a child that some would feel an urge to mother.
"Are you Somdy Borachit? Also known as Neung?" Siri asked.
The prisoner seemed stunned, even shell-shocked. It took him a while to acknowledge Siri was there outside the bars.
"Yes."
"Did you kill Hatavan Rattanasamay, Khantaly Sisamouth and Sunisa Simmarit?" Siri asked. No point in preliminaries.
Neung looked at Siri coldly.
"Who are you?"
"You answer my question and I'll think about answering yours."
Neung stood, walked to the bars and glared. Siri resisted the temptation to take a step back.
"Why would I want to kill three people I hardly knew?"
Siri nodded.
It was a bad response. A murderer's answer.
"But, it isn't true, is it?" Siri said. "That you didn't know them, I mean. One you were having an affair with. Another you'd known since she was a child. You travelled to Germany with her."
"What's the matter with you people? Don't you listen? We didn't travel anywhere together." Neung had raised his voice. "And I'm not answering any more of your questions until you tell me who you are and what you're doing here."
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