by Roland Perry
‘I promise to look out for him,’ Cavalier said.
‘Many of the passengers are failing to answer the knock at their doors. We’ve had to slip notes to assure them that all is back to normal. What with the disturbance, and before that the murder, they are naturally worried.’
‘They know about the murder?’
‘Mais, bien sur! Rumours of anything out of the ordinary spreads like wildfire on a train.’
‘You’ve had murders before?’
‘Mon Dieu, no! But we have had deaths.’
*
Despite his sudden and unexpected proximity to the murderers employed by the cartel operations in Asia, Marco Rodriguez could not bring himself to associate with them beyond the absolute necessity to do so. He’d left that to Cortez and wished to distance himself from the cartel’s more nefarious activities in South East Asia. But now Cortez was dead, along with five other Mexican cut-throats, and Rodriguez was responsible for the remainder of the gang.
As the train nosed towards it destination, he and his wife Maria finished packing. ‘I don’t want to associate with my compatriots,’ he told his wife as she painted her nails. ‘They are a link to my uncle’s past. I want nothing to do with them.’
‘But darling, they saved the bullion. You have to help them.’
‘That’s all I care about. I must claim it on behalf of my company. Don’t you see? My direct association with them will get questions from everyone about how it was acquired. The Singapore banks will not accept it if they think it’s hot or somehow ill-gotten.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Maria said, standing to adjust her bra as if it and her breasts had to be aligned and displayed in a centimetre-perfect manner. ‘Gold is gold. Your company has control of it. You have receipts from all those trading shops you bought it from, for a start.’
‘Someone is going to challenge our ownership,’ he said with a frown, ‘perhaps the Thai government. Its junta likes such booty. Or even the Singaporeans or Malaysians.’
‘I’d be more concerned about the Americans.’
‘I can only hope that the lawyers I’ve already lined up will be able to allow it to be taken to the banks.’
*
Azelaporn ordered Jacinta to join him and his Chinese courtesans in his suite for breakfast.
‘I don’t think I can pay you the rest of your money,’ he said, hoping that his two women would stop Jacinta from reacting.
‘Tell me why,’ she said, stirring her coffee and staring. ‘We are ensuring safe passage of the bullion, aren’t we?’
‘You don’t understand,’ he said, opening his hands to her plaintively. ‘I did the deal with Cortez. There was only a handshake agreement; nothing was written down.’
‘Not even an email?’
‘Any communication was deleted long ago.’
Jacinta gave him a withering look.
‘Oh, but you’ve been paid, haven’t you?’
‘No.’
‘You are a liar!’
‘I was to be paid once the bullion was delivered to Singapore.’
‘Doesn’t Rodriguez realise you have not been protecting him and the gold for nothing?’
Azelaporn feigned helplessness.
‘Ask him about it,’ she said, glancing at the Chinese, ‘or I will.’
*
After breakfast was served in the last hour of the trip, the steward could not raise Blenkiron. He sent another staff member to find Huloton, who was in the infirmary with Makanathan. Seeing that her husband was asleep and being monitored, she accompanied Huloton to Blenkiron’s presidential suite. Huloton used his master key to open the door. He walked in, followed by the steward and Makanathan. A distinct odour of cleaning fluid pervaded the suite. The first thing they saw was the empty wheelchair with a pair of crutches resting on it. It faced a window, which had been raised.
‘Mon Dieu!’ Huloton said. ‘He has committed suicide!’
‘Not necessarily,’ Makanathan said, taking out a camera and examining the room, the bathroom and the cupboards. ‘He has left a suitcase. It is empty.’
‘Do we have his passport?’ Huloton said to the steward.
‘No, Sir, he never surrendered it for the final border.’
‘You have photocopies?’ Makanathan asked.
‘We do.’
‘Hmm,’ Makanathan mumbled, ‘I will do a DNA sweep of the room, although it seems someone has done a thorough job in cleaning up, and perhaps destroying evidence.’
‘No one has been in the room, except the American, since the journey began,’ Huloton informed her.
Makanathan began examining the door-sized partition to the adjoining cabin.
‘It is sealed and can’t be opened,’ Huloton said dismissively as he watched her. ‘All the carriages’ main suites have them. They were never used, at least since my company took control of the train.’
Makanathan pulled a face and nodded.
‘What are your thoughts, Doctor?’ Huloton asked.
‘I can see two possibilities. One was of course, that he jumped, or in his case fell, from the train. How long has it been since he was seen?’
‘About 2.15 a.m. this morning, just before the murder …’ ‘Or two, someone has made it seem that he jumped.’ She ruffled her spiky hair and muttered, almost to herself, ‘There is a chance that Cowboy was right, after all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The American is the only passenger to have left the train after the murder of Cortez. He must be top of the list of suspects.’
40
CHANGE OF TUNE
Makanathan had been distracted from her tireless work through the night by her husband’s heart attack. She was preoccupied with supervising by phone his emergency transportation to hospital as soon as the Express reached Singapore. She then wasted no time in reporting the events of the night by email to the local police, who would rely entirely on her confidential findings.
‘This night provided enough work for a dozen coroners and investigators,’ she complained to Huloton at the door to the infirmary, ‘but I did not even have time to take sufficient notes. It has been the most dreadful and intense time in my entire career!’
‘With respect, Madame,’ he said, ‘you should look after your husband first. The dead are dead. There is no hope for them.’
‘You are right, and I am. I have run out of time.’ The train stuttered as it began to slow down ten kilometres from Singapore station. ‘I tell you confidentially, I have a sense of failure for the first time in my career. I have been thwarted before, yes, by governments. But I have always solved the crime.’ She began to light a cigarette. Huloton stopped her.
‘Only in the observation car,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Madame.’
Makanathan began to weep. Huloton put his arm around her shoulder.
‘There, there,’ he said, ‘it is not a failure. You will have time later …’
‘No, no. I cannot reconstruct events. Ninety per cent of the passengers will have disappeared in a day or two.’
‘May I say, Madame,’ Huloton said, ‘you could look at the whole affair from a different perspective.’ He paused to glance both ways along the corridor. ‘Someone has done the world a great service.’
‘What?’
Huloton tilted his head and pouted. ‘I am told the deceased Jose Cortez has killed many people,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘He was an extraordinary assassin working for a drug cartel.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It was in total confidence, Madame.’
‘You must tell me more.’
‘With respect, I cannot. But there is public knowledge about him. The Americans have been wanting to eliminate him for some time.’
‘The Americans? Does that mean our lost wheelchair passenger could have had a motive?’
Huloton raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly.
‘Food for thought,’ he said, ‘and worth investigating perhaps, when you have a clear h
ead and time?’
*
Melody Smith, forewarned by Cavalier of the bullion, had already put in an official US Government claim for the gold, which she branded ‘contraband’ from the proceeds of drugs, prostitution and people trafficking. Smith also wanted the Mexican bodyguards arrested and extradited to the US.
Rodriguez planned to put in a demand for the gold, claiming that the proceeds were the legitimate result of business by his newly acquired company, Golden Eagle Constructions. He also would say he did not have control of when or how the bullion was generated. In the end, the Singapore courts, and even an international court after that, were expected to decide the gold’s ownership and the fate of the Mexicans, who in the meantime were expected to be sent to a local detention centre.
Rodriguez had a lingering dilemma over the remainder of his inherited squad of killers. He decided, with some reluctance, to fund the legal effort to stop the remaining Mexicans being extradited to the US.
Huloton had successfully pleaded with all parties that the happenings on the Bangkok Express be kept secret from the press and public. Every passenger signed a legal agreement not to mention the events in exchange for a complete trip refund and a further payout of a hundred thousand US dollars per person. The press, however, were bound to hear rumours.
‘How long do you think the bribe to passengers will last?’ Cavalier asked Huloton as he eased from his cabin, his backpack over his shoulder.
‘You will not think of blackmail, I trust, Monsieur, as one Frenchman to another?’
‘Never!’
‘My hope, my prayer, for my company’s sake is that our story will last until the whole affair appears like a rumour,’ he replied. ‘We will even put out photographs of the burnt-out observation car for the media, along with a plausible explanation of the fire to cover for the more dramatic events.’
‘And the deceased Mexicans?’
‘What Mexicans, Monsieur? The press will not learn of our kitchen morgue. At least, I pray to God not.’
‘But Dr Makanathan will not hide her investigation, will she?’
‘She will submit any report to a senior government official, which we and the Thai junta will not want made public. You see, it would all be very bad for tourism.’
‘I see.’
‘We are taking the high ground, like a good battle commander.’
‘Hmm,’ Cavalier said, ‘I do hope so. Of course many of the passengers would have heard the gunfire.’
‘Muffled, Monsieur, muffled.’
‘The bomb explosions?’
‘Some passengers thought that it was thunder. At least that is what they hoped it was. They were locked in their cabins, in darkness. Only that Australian who was with Jacinta Cin Lai at the locomotive front witnessed anything.’
Cavalier was pleased that Huloton did not seem to know that he (Cavalier) had been in the locomotive.
‘I have offered him a hundred thousand dollars on top of the hundred thousand to keep quiet. He refused the extra gratuity, even at first denying that he had been firing from the locomotive. He told me he did not wish to be exposed for his activity at the front.’
*
The injured Bangkok Express nosed into Singapore’s art deco station at noon on the morning of 27 April. At the end of the train, a sixty-strong contingent of Singapore police, all in riot gear, surrounded the Mexicans and Azelaporn as they emerged from carriages 30 and 31. An intense discussion ensued between, on the one side, Huloton, Azelaporn and suited lawyers on behalf of the Mexicans; and on the other side, the local police chief, Melody Smith and twenty DEA agents, all in telltale suits and dark glasses. Makanathan was not among them. She was busy making sure her husband would be taken to hospital.
Eight hundred metres away, two ambulances were waiting near the exit barrier where at least a hundred passengers were lined up, eager to enter Singapore. Very few were speaking. Some were dishevelled; others were fatigued. Most had not slept much. The shock of the attacks on the train during the night had left them dispirited and confused, although none expressed anger. They were thankful they had survived, with the promise of good recompense. Huloton had his staff and security people spread the rumour that ‘criminals had been active in a village near where the train had stopped in a siding to let other trains through’. The further claim was that this ‘gang of armed thugs had tried to board the train to escape police, but had been forced away’.
*
Janet Hinkley was in the line, comforting Cowboy, who was distressed. He had learnt that the American in the wheelchair had disappeared and was possibly dead. Cowboy flapped his arms and kicked the ground.
‘It’s okay, Cowboy,’ Hinkley said, attempting to comfort him, ‘he may be in heaven. Or perhaps he escaped. You know darling, that nice Dr Makanathan thinks you may have been right. The American could have committed the murder. She thinks there is a possibility he may have been pretending to be disabled.’
Cowboy was not appeased. He opened his mouth wide, made a strange clicking noise with his tongue and rolled his eyes. Then he shook his head.
‘You don’t think the American did it?’ Hinkley asked.
Cowboy shook his head in such a vigorous fashion that Hinkley was confused. Was he agreeing or disagreeing with her question?
At that moment Cavalier walked by alongside Pon as she was stretchered to an ambulance. Cowboy jumped and banged his foot on the ground in further agitation.
‘Monsieur,’ Hinkley said to Cavalier, ‘thank you for whatever you did on the train.’
He stopped. ‘It is Jacinta you should thank.’
Cowboy made some strange noises, which registered further disquiet.
‘He is concerned about the American,’ Hinkley said.
‘We all are,’ Cavalier said, wishing to catch up with Pon.
He looked at Cowboy. ‘Don’t worry, he probably escaped the train during the … er … incidents. I am sure he will be okay.’
Cowboy smiled briefly and looked away.
‘Thank you,’ Hinkley said, ‘he will feel better now.’
Cavalier nodded and hurried off to join Pon, who was heavily sedated.
‘Do you know her?’ Hinkley called, pointing to Pon on the stretcher. Cavalier pretended not to hear and merely waved, just as Melody Smith hurried forward, phone to her ear. She directed DEA agents to escort Cavalier, Pon and Jacinta to an ambulance.
Meanwhile, Makanathan was by her husband’s side at one of the ambulances about thirty metres from the first. He was on another mobile stretcher that was about to be slid into the vehicle. She was suddenly alert to him clutching his chest and complaining of further pain. She helped paramedics ease him into the vehicle without looking up to see the first ambulance speeding away, sirens blaring. Her husband was short of breath. He was having a second attack. The paramedics gave him oxygen.
*
Cavalier, a semi-conscious Pon and Jacinta drove a few kilometres to Tengah airfield in Singapore’s south-west with a convoy of DEA vehicles, led by Smith. She had arranged a chartered 16-seater plane to fly to Bangkok. Pon, on her stretcher, lay in the aisle. Cavalier was in the cockpit with the pilot.
Smith sat in the cabin next to Jacinta and attempted to quiz her.
‘What’s his relationship with the woman?’ she asked, indicating Pon, who had fallen asleep.
‘She’s his daughter.’
‘Oh, that explains a few things,’ Smith said, eyebrows raised. ‘And you? How do you know Vic?’
Jacinta considered Smith for a few seconds before answering evasively, ‘I wish to help his daughter receive proper medical attention.’
‘You are acquaintances?’
Jacinta didn’t respond.
‘Can you tell me what happened on the train?’
‘I think you should ask him.’
‘Did he have an accomplice?’ Smith asked, in almost a whisper.
‘What?’
‘In the elimination of Cortez.’
�
��I have no idea. And I have no idea who dealt with the Mexican.’
Once in Bangkok, Jacinta organised that Pon be taken to the drug rehabilitation unit at Bumrungrad International Hospital—reputedly the best in South East Asia for this work. Pon was expected to remain there for at least a week before being flown to Chiang Rai in Thailand’s north. There she would be under the care of her mother, subject to Pin’s agreement, at the drug rehabilitation facility in that city.
Cavalier rang Pin to tell her the news that her long-lost daughter was alive.
At first Pin did not believe him. She gripped the phone and cried. After several minutes, and Cavalier’s continual reassurance, she managed to speak. ‘Serena was right, but you never believed her.’
‘Who?’
‘My third daughter.’
The name came rushing back down a darker tunnel of his memory. That bloody doll!
‘Oh, yes, Serena,’ he said, without cynicism. ‘I’d forgotten about her. Forgive me.’
‘I remember we both agreed that Pon had died. Serena never believed that.’
Cavalier vaguely recalled Pin speaking of Serena’s ‘beliefs’. It seemed like more irrational doll ‘commentary’ that he had put out of his mind.
‘She sits with me right now,’ Pin said. ‘She is smiling. She always said Pon was alive. Serena is my good luck charm!’
‘Have you spoken to your—our—other real daughter, Far?’
‘Oh, her! She never calls. Occasionally says something on Facebook.’
‘I keep in touch. Why not ask her to come home and nurse her sister?’ Cavalier said.
Pin began to cry again.
‘I am … so happy …’ she managed to say, ‘please tell me this is true … I am not dreaming. My beautiful Pon is alive!’
*
He booked in at Bangkok’s Phachara Suites, a hotel on Soi 6 off Sukhumvit, using his Laurent Blanc French passport. As far as he was concerned, the document in the name of Claude Garriaud had to be retired, forever. On the night of 29 April and not having to assume a false identity, he was met in his room by Smith. He handed over the KK pack. They sauntered down to Hemingway’s restaurant, in a garden setting on Soi 14. The evening was warm and humid after a very hot forty-six degrees during the day.