The Rat Catchers' Olympics

by Colin Cotterill

  Yet Roger was clearly fascinated by Siri’s account. His education had not been limited to language. He’d learned of Laos’ history and geography but had been most fascinated by her alignment to the world of the spirits. Perhaps that element had first enticed him to learn a language only .0009% of the world understood.

  “So, to summarize,” said Civilai. “A Lao student, his bodyguard and his pseudo-French maid might or might not have been blown to bits by someone on our team. We have no bodies and no news reports but still you would have us track down the culprit?”

  “That’s correct,” said Siri.

  “Wait,” said Roger. “I need to savor the greatness.”

  “No time for sarcasm,” said Siri.

  “No, I think he might be actually savoring the greatness,” said Daeng, staring into the translator’s wide eyes.

  “No, why, yes, yes,” said Roger. “No question about it. This is way beyond the life development I expected when I selected Lao as my major.”

  “Then while you’re riding on this magic cloud,” said Civilai, “what chance is there you might ferret around and pick up rumors about a building explosion?”

  “I’ll go there right now,” he said, the noodle still dangling from his mouth.

  “We don’t want anyone to think we sent you,” said Daeng.

  “I’ll be the most discreet of bystanders,” said Roger. “Don’t worry.”

  “Then go forth, brave Roger, and find us a murder scene,” said Siri, and he wrote down the address. In two minutes Roger was out in the street looking for a taxi. They watched him through the greasy window.

  “So, we trust him, right?” said Dtui.

  “After the story he’s just heard I imagine he’s on his way to a mental asylum to make an appointment for us,” said Civilai. “Either that or he’s as mad as us.”

  “I vote that he’s as mad as us,” said Daeng. “And I’m something of an authority on madness.”

  “Then let us turn our attention to the perpetrator,” said Siri.

  “Of the murder that, as yet, does not exist,” said Civilai.

  “We can eliminate most of the competitors because they were with us at the stadium at the time of the explosion,” said Daeng.

  “Except for the shooters,” said Dtui. “They weren’t there.”

  “But you know we didn’t exactly do a roll call,” said Civilai. “Anyone could have slipped in and slipped back without us noticing. We were all distracted by the race walk. And if there was a bomb it might have been on a timer. It could have been set at any time.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Siri. “The killer would have wanted to be sure the victim was in the building. He wouldn’t go to all this trouble only to find Manoi was off at the boulangerie buying baguettes. He’d have been there watching.”

  “We have to find out what the shooters were doing on the evening of the race walk,” said Daeng.

  “Why are we bothering to do the job of the local police?” said Civilai.

  “Because, firstly, when the authorities discover that a Lao was killed, I’d like to be one step ahead of them,” said Siri.

  “Me too,” said Daeng.

  “And secondly,” said Siri, “the boy’s father entrusted us with the wellbeing of his son. We did a lousy job. If we can come up with results it might placate the old man and keep Phosy safe.”

  “And how do we go about discovering the whereabouts of the soldiers yesterday afternoon?” said Civilai.

  “We ask them,” said Daeng.

  Not for the first time, Malee was sleeping in a hammock beside the roll-out bed of Gongjai the reformed prostitute. The child was growing up in a number of perilous situations and Phosy didn’t like it. Laos was too small. Information was too cheap. Life was too temporary. You could change any decision, reverse any conviction, steer public opinion with just a few US dollars or the threat of harm to a family member. So Phosy had sent his daughter to Siri’s official house, just to be sure. And just as well. It was on Phosy’s first night alone that the stranger arrived with the news the inspector had been dreading.

  Phosy was usually the last to bathe in the communal bathroom. He rarely arrived home before dark and often when the moon was peeking down through the broken tiles on the roof. That night he’d ladled enough water on himself to drown a turtle. The sweat and grime washed off but the slime of bureaucracy clung to him. Again he thought of the forty thousand dollars in his desk drawer and the breathing space that much money could give a man.

  He reached for his towel but it wasn’t on the nail where he’d hung it. He looked around and that was when he saw the lopsided man. He wore Phosy’s towel on his head like a turban.

  “Sorry to disturb your ablutions,” said the man. He was distorted. It was as if two men of different builds had been sliced down the middle and reassembled as one. His muscular side leaned against the doorframe.

  Phosy wasn’t easily embarrassed or intimidated.

  “You can either stare at my groin for another minute and regret that nature didn’t endow you so kindly,” he said, “or you can toss me the towel.”

  “I’m a messenger,” said the man.

  “Then give me the message and throw me the towel, you asymmetrical freak.”

  “Don’t give me an excuse to hurt you,” said the man.

  “I’ll take that as a threat,” said Phosy. “That’s a shame. We could have been such good friends.”

  “Comrade Thonglai is very disappointed with you,” said the man. “He just learned that his son has been killed. You were entrusted with his safety and you failed. If you don’t find out who was responsible in the next few days, you never know what might happen. Heaven forbid your family meets the same fate as Comrade Manoi.”

  He removed the towel from his head, threw it to Phosy and turned to leave. He’d looked much better in a towel.

  “Can I just summarize?” said Phosy. He wiped his feet before wrapping himself in the towel.

  “What?” said the man. He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  “Your boss’s son was killed,” said Phosy.

  “That’s right.”

  “And because I couldn’t prevent it, despite being seven thousand kilometers away, my family is in danger?”

  “You got it.”

  “Then you’re under arrest,” said Phosy.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “No, I’m serious,” said Phosy. “Threatening a police officer is a crime.”

  Lopsided turned toward the policeman.

  “No,” he said. “You know what a crime is? This is a crime.”

  He pulled up the flap of his safari shirt to give Phosy an uninterrupted view of the pistol in his belt.

  “You’re right,” said Phosy. “It is a crime. Threats with a weapon. Put your hands up.”

  “Don’t push your luck, policeman.”

  With dry feet and the advantage of surprise, Phosy was on the messenger before the lopsided man could react. He had him on the tiled floor, bounced his head a couple of times and relieved him of his weapon. Something might have broken after that: a finger perhaps or a nose. Statistics showed that eighty percent of domestic accidents occurred in the bathroom.

  Dtui chose day eight to go in search of the shooters because they didn’t have anyone competing on that day. She was given a route map by the ladies at the information booth and she set off with a plastic box containing her secret weapon—sticky rice and mangos. At the Kabul Noodle Bazaar they’d learned where to buy glutinous rice and the nurse had risen early that morning to produce a batch. At the Cherkisovsky Market she’d found mangos. They came from Vietnam and cost a fortune but the Lao administrators decided they were worth the investment. They were part of the range of exotic fruits and foodstuff that had found their way into Moscow for the games to pad out the empty shop fron
ts.

  Dtui had been nominated for the role of military liaison for a number of reasons. She could speak Russian, which gave her a better chance of getting through the gates. She was married to a policeman, so she wasn’t intimidated by men in uniform. And she was pretty and chubby like the sisters and wives and mothers of the men on the shooting team.

  As it turned out, getting into the barracks had been simple enough. She went to reception and told them she had some sweets for the Lao team. They copied down her ID number and name and gave her directions to the recreation room. She’d been expecting something less convivial. The shooters were playing games or watching the Olympics on TV. When they saw her they gathered around and suddenly she was with a group of seven lads from any village she’d ever been to. They were funny and honest. They sat in a circle eating their sticky rice and mango, missing home and telling Nurse Dtui their secrets.

  “We’d sooner be with the rest of you at the village,” said Sompoo.

  He was long-necked and clumsy looking but he was surprisingly open considering he’d not met the nurse before. Not at all the assassin they’d pictured.

  “We’re negotiating to get back there for the last three days of the Games,” he said, “but it’s not easy. The Red Army provided our weapons and sent us trainers so they feel kind of responsible for us. Once our events were over they insisted we accept their hospitality out here.”

  “It’s good though,” said a spiky-haired youth named Boom. “They arrange activities for us. Church tours and stuff. They’re kind.”

  “We’ve been watching the events on TV,” said Ming, the eldest of the shooters. He was lanky and had the type of smile a single Dtui would have swooned over. “And we’re over the moon at the support you’ve all been giving the team. That walking race was the greatest.”

  Dtui felt guilty. She’d been sent there as a spy, to observe, to ask questions and use her instincts. She’d been told to identify a likely assassin but she could see none. The only man missing from the group was their leader, Colonel Fah Hai. He’d begged off the sticky rice feast, claiming to have a stomach bug. He’d been unpleasant from the beginning. If she really had to identify a potential killer, his would be the name at the top of her list. That was until they started talking about the twenty-kilometer race walk. Just mentioning it started a buzz of excitement.

  “Wasn’t that something?” said Sompoo.

  “I’d given up on Khamon,” said Ming.

  “At the start he’d looked so strong,” said Sompoo. “I thought he was going to win the bloody thing.”

  “And then it’s all over and the doors open and there he is,” said Sompoo’s friend, Boom, “smiling and strolling along. I’d have given him a medal just for that.”

  “And there was a close-up of the Lao flag and all you lot dancing and cheering,” said Sompoo. “I’ve never felt so proud. And the world’s watching and they’re all saying, ‘Those Lao, they never give up.’”

  “I cried,” said Boom.

  “Me too,” said Dtui. “It was a shame none of you could get to the stadium. You’d have loved the atmosphere.”

  The soldiers stared guiltily in the direction of the only man not to have spoken since she arrived. He was probably in his late twenties but his face looked old and wise. His eyes hid behind two curtains of curly black eyebrows. He blushed at the sudden attention.

  “Sitti was there,” said Boom.

  “Shut up,” said Ming.

  “We can tell her,” said Sompoo. “She’s not going to give anything away, are you Big Sister?”

  “Not a word,” she said.

  “Sitti went AWOL, you see?” said Sompoo. “He just jogged out through the gate wearing his tracksuit as if he was training. The guards didn’t know what to say. And he kept jogging all the way to the station.”

  “And you went to the stadium?” Dtui asked.

  Sitti nodded.

  “Brought us back souvenirs,” said Boom holding up his brand new Marx-Lenin wristwatch. “A dozen of the things.”

  Dtui smiled. “How did you get back in?” she asked.

  “Same way he left,” said Ming. “They’d changed the shift by then. Didn’t know he’d been gone half the day and most of the night. Wish I’d done it too.”

  “Great atmosphere, wasn’t it?” she said.

  Sitti nodded again, obviously embarrassed.

  “He doesn’t talk much, does he?” said Dtui.

  “He’s shy,” said Ming. “A man of actions rather than words.”

  “Why didn’t you come up and sit with us in the west stand?” Dtui asked.

  Sitti thought about the question for a while. “You were attracting too much attention up there,” he said. “Last thing I wanted was my face on the TV screen for all the officers here to see.”

  “Good point,” said Dtui.

  She remembered from her visit to the firing range that Sitti was a pistol shooter. There was nothing menacing about him. He was just a sweet, shy soldier. But he was the only one in the group with no confirmable alibi for the evening of the explosion. An explosion that, as yet, was unsubstantiated.

  “Did Colonel Fah Hai watch the race with you?” she asked.

  There were a number of sideways glances and winks.

  “The colonel prefers to hang out with the Soviets,” said Ming. “He speaks the lingo. So he watches all the competitions up there in their officers’ mess.”

  “We only see him when he’s taking us to events or activities,” said Sompoo.

  “You don’t like him much, do you?” said Dtui.

  Their smiles answered her question.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Little Boxers All the Same

  “Phosy!” came a voice from above.

  The inspector was about to head off on his moped but his boss, Comrade Oudomxai, leaned over the third floor balcony and beckoned him upstairs. The chief of police was not a policeman. He was an accountant and he was one of the main reasons Phosy was so seriously considering floating himself and his family across the river to a camp in Thailand. He arrived in front of Oudomxai’s office winded from the jog up three flights.

  “Phosy, have you arrested anyone in the past twenty-four hours?” asked the chief. He was a wide, solid man of little substance.

  “No, sir,” said Phosy. “Can I go now?”

  “No. I . . . there has been a query,” said Oudomxai. “It comes from a very high source.”

  He glared at Phosy who stared blankly back at him.

  “I’d like you to consider your answer very carefully,” said the chief.

  “That was my answer,” said Phosy. “If I’d arrested somebody they’d be in one of our cells and their name and the circumstances would be documented in our log book.”

  “One would hope so.”

  “So?”

  “So one of our officers claims to have seen you . . . apprehending somebody last night.”

  “Apprehend meaning?”

  “Drag forcefully into a car.”

  “Time? Place?”

  “In front of the police dormitory at around eleven p.m.”

  “And by ‘officer’ you mean the rarely sober guard who mans the police box in front of our building? He’s the only one likely to be present at that hour but it sounds like he wasn’t totally conscious. Damn, that means we have to dismiss yet another guard. Perhaps if we offered a higher salary . . .”

  “Are you saying he’s lying?”

  “Perhaps just confused,” said Phosy. “Firstly, I don’t have a car. Secondly, my wife’s off in Moscow so at eleven p.m. I was helping a young woman get home from a bar before curfew, if you know what I mean. I was concerned she might have epilepsy so I stayed with her at her place to make sure she didn’t swallow her tongue.”

  He nudged the chief in the arm.

 
; “The complainant said—”

  “What’s his name?”

  “That’s not your concern. The complainant states that his assistant went to see you yesterday evening on some administrative matter and he did not return.”

  “Well, that’s it, then,” said Phosy.

  “That’s what?”

  “This missing assistant went to see me. I wasn’t there. He was about to leave when somebody in a car mugged him and dragged him into the back seat. The drunk guard woke up temporarily from his stupor, spied the abduction and assumed it was an arrest. End of story.”

  “Except there’s no assistant.”

  “Probably dead,” said Phosy. “Muggers who can afford a car don’t leave witnesses.”

  The chief clearly had coronas of doubt and confusion slowly rotating around his mind.

  “If that’s so . . .” he began.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m putting you on this case. I want that man found.”

  “If he’s still alive I’ll personally deliver him to his boss,” said Phosy. “Who did you say the complainant was?”

  “I . . . didn’t. Just bring him to me.”

  “Yes, sir. Can I go?”

  “Yes, dismissed,” said the chief.

  Phosy saluted. The chief didn’t know how to respond.

  It doesn’t count as an arrest if you’re being held in a room above a noodle shop. The lopsided man was handcuffed to a pipe and had a backward balaclava on his head. Every hour or so, Mr. Geung’s fiancée, Tukta, would lift the mask to below his eyes and squirt coconut water into his nose. It was an uncomfortable way to receive nutrients but the messenger was vile mouthed and it was an unpleasant experience to remove the dishrag from between his teeth.

  Phosy sat silently opposite him and considered his plan. If it went wrong he would no longer be a policeman and the money burning a hole in his desk drawer would find a purpose. If it went right, there would be one hell of a shake up in Vientiane. He composed the next Arpy conversation in his head. He’d call in an hour. He wouldn’t tell his wife about the threat to Malee and the fact she was being looked after by their friends. He wouldn’t specifically mention the messenger. But he’d urge the Lao in Moscow to expedite the capture of the assassin because Phosy was hanging on by a thread and he was more alone than ever.