The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  Wright filled in the form, and just as he finished the girl opened her eyes and handed him a key. She was snoring once more as he picked up his suitcase and headed for the stairs.

  His room was on the third floor, clean but basic with a double bed, two cane chairs and a small circular table, a mirrored built-in wardrobe, a television and a small refrigerator. Wright heaved his suitcase on top of the wardrobe and sat down on the bed.

  Bangkok was six hours ahead of London, but despite not sleeping on the plane he didn’t feel tired. There was a telephone by the bed and a Yellow Pages. He flicked through it but it was all in Thai. He took his notebook out of his blazer pocket and read through the notes he’d made on the Eric Horvitz murder. He’d managed to find a translation agency in the West End that had translated the Thai cuttings, and one of them had contained a quote from a policeman who was involved in the investigation. Wright reckoned he would be as good a place to start as any, but first he needed a contact number.

  He showered and changed into a pair of brown slacks and a white shirt, then took his notebook down to reception, woke up the receptionist and showed her the policeman’s name in his notebook. She frowned, not understanding. Wright pointed at the inspector’s name and mimed using a telephone. The girl squinted at his writing, then smiled and shook her head. ‘Not speak English,’ she said.

  ‘Directory enquiries?’ asked Wright, pointing at her telephone, but it was clear from the look on her face that she didn’t understand. The girl’s smile widened, as if the smile would solve his problem. He banged his notebook against his leg as he considered his options. The orphanage where Horvitz had worked seemed the best bet.

  He went outside and looked up and down the narrow street but there was no sign of a taxi. He headed for the main road and within seconds he was bathed in sweat. The Bangkok air assailed his nostrils, a stifling brew of exhaust fumes, sewage and fried food. He stepped across an open drain and as he looked down something moved in the grey sludge, something with a tail and hard, beady eyes.

  A large Mercedes went by, the wing mirror narrowly missing Wright’s arm. He walked by an open-fronted shop selling tinned food and canned drinks. He bought a can of iced coffee and sipped it as he walked.

  The traffic on the main road was locked solid. Wright looked at his wristwatch. Nine thirty. Obviously still rush hour. In the distance a traffic light turned from red to green and the traffic began to crawl forward. A green taxi with white Thai writing on the side had its red ‘For Hire’ light on in its windscreen, so Wright flagged it down and opened the rear door.

  ‘Sukhumvit Soi Two,’ he read, hoping that he was pronouncing it correctly.

  The young driver smiled and shook his head. Wright tried again. This time the driver made a waving motion with his hand. Wright showed him the notebook but the driver refused to look at it. Horns blared out behind them, illogical because the traffic was barely moving.

  ‘Look, I want to go here. This is Sukhumvit Road, right? I want to go to Sukhumvit Soi Two. It can’t be far away.’

  The driver turned away and sat motionless with his hands on the wheel. Wright sat back and silently cursed. What chance did he have of solving the case if he couldn’t even tell a taxi driver where he wanted to go? He got out of the taxi and walked back along the side street.

  When he got back to his hotel the sleeping girl had been replaced by a young man in a black suit and a starched white shirt whose collar was about three sizes too big for him. He smiled at Wright and held out a key for him. ‘Good morning, Mr Wright,’ he said, flashing a grin of perfect white teeth.

  ‘How did you know my name?’ asked Wright.

  ‘My colleague told me that you had checked in, and she described you as a good-looking man wearing brown trousers.’

  Wright shook his head in amazement. Faultless English and flattery combined, it was almost too good to be true. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Somchai,’ said the teenager. ‘At your service.’ He bowed slightly, still holding out the key.

  ‘Somchai, you’re just what I need,’ said Wright, showing him the notebook. ‘I want to go to this address. Can you help?’

  Somchai put the key back in its cubbyhole and studied the page. ‘An orphanage?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Sukhumvit Soi Two. The main road is called Sukhumvit. The soi is the street off the main road. We are in soi twenty-six.’

  ‘So how do I tell the taxi driver?’

  ‘You say Sukhumvit Soi Song. And to get back here you say Sukhumvit Soi Yee Sip Hok.’ He picked up a pen and a sheet of hotel notepaper and wrote on it in Thai. ‘This will be better,’ he said. ‘Show the driver this, and when you want to come back, show him the printed address.’

  ‘You’re a lifesaver, Somchai,’ said Wright, pocketing the piece of paper. He went through the notebook and found the name of the police inspector. He showed it to Somchai. ‘I want to speak to this man. He’s a police inspector. Can you get a telephone number for him?’

  ‘Do you know which police station he is based at?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Somchai copied down the name. ‘I will see what I can do,’ he said. He smiled expectantly at Wright. Wright smiled back. Somchai’s smile widened so that it seemed to encompass the whole of his jaw. Realisation dawned and Wright took out his wallet and gave the teenager a hundred-baht note.

  This time Wright had no problem persuading a taxi driver to take him to the orphanage. It was only a mile or so away from the hotel but the journey took almost an hour. If it hadn’t been for the searing heat and humidity, Wright could have walked it in less than half the time. Even the Thais seemed affected by the heat. A line of schoolchildren stood in the shadow cast by a telegraph pole; female office workers in pastel-coloured suits shielded their faces with their handbags as they walked along Sukhumvit Road; a crew of workers resurfacing a section of the road wore wide-brimmed straw hats and had swathed their faces with cloth to protect themselves from the sun.

  The road was a mix of old and new: gleaming shopping malls with boutiques and ATMs, and small open-fronted shops where bare-chested old men worked on ancient Singer sewing machines. There were roadside stalls selling T-shirts and cheap watches, and others offering noodle soup and fried fish balls on sticks from the shade of spreading umbrellas.

  The orphanage was in a quiet side street, barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass at the same time. Wright heard the sound of laughing children as he climbed out of the taxi and paid the driver.

  The orphanage was surrounded by a high wall into which was set a pair of huge wrought-iron gates encrusted with dirt. A security guard in a pale blue uniform with a gleaming gold badge on the breast pocket opened the gate for Wright.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ asked Wright.

  The guard smiled and worked a toothpick between his front teeth. Wright repeated his question but it was clear that the man didn’t understand.

  Wright looked around helplessly. The orphanage was a large concrete two-storey building, painted a pale pink colour with a red tiled roof. The laughter he’d heard came from one of the rooms on the ground floor. The windows were wide open and inside he could see children sitting at desks while a Thai nun in a white habit stood in front of a blackboard. The gardens around the building were well tended with neatly trimmed bushes and a large expanse of grass where the children could play. In the far corner of the garden, close to the wall, were a slide and a set of swings. It wasn’t at all how Wright had pictured a Thai orphanage: he’d expected a drab, dreary place where hollow-cheeked malnourished children held up empty bowls and begged for more.

  Wright nodded at the guard and headed along a flagstoned path that led to the main entrance. Two stone lions stood guard at the front door, each coming up almost to Wright’s shoulder. He walked past them and into the building.

  There was no airconditioning but large fans whirled overhead in the wood-panelled hallway and it was much cooler
than outside. A highly polished rosewood table stood to the left, with a large visitors’ book next to a vase of pink and white orchids.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked a voice behind him.

  Wright jumped. ‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed. He whirled around to find himself face to face with an amused European nun, a woman in her forties with striking green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles around her nose.

  ‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘Though we do like to feel that we have his blessing in our work.’ Her accent was Irish, a soft, feminine brogue that suggested she enjoyed teasing men.

  Wright felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, Sister,’ he said. ‘You caught me by surprise.’

  The nun clasped her hands together. She was wearing a white habit and stray locks of red hair peeped out from the cowl as if reluctant to stay hidden. ‘And what brings you to our establishment, Mr . . .?’

  ‘Wright. Nick Wright. Are you in charge?’

  ‘For my sins,’ she said. ‘Sister Marie is my name. Taking care of children, my game. And you, Mr Wright?’

  ‘I’m a policeman,’ said Wright. He took out his warrant card and showed it to her.

  She studied both sides, then handed it back to him, suddenly serious. ‘It’s about Eric, I suppose?’

  Wright nodded. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘My office,’ she said. ‘This way.’ She swept down the hall, past an ornate crucifix and a small font, and down a second tiled hallway to a wooden door. She was a tall woman, the spreading cowl emphasising her height, and she had to duck slightly as she walked through the doorway. The habit concealed her figure and Wright couldn’t help but wonder what Sister Marie’s body looked like. He shook his head, disgusted with himself. She was a nun, for God’s sake. A bride of Christ.

  Sister Marie stood to the side and ushered him to a straight-backed wooden chair next to the window. She closed the door and glided over to her desk. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ she said.

  ‘It’s a bit early for me,’ said Wright.

  ‘I meant water,’ she said archly. ‘Or iced tea.’

  Yet again Wright was flustered. He was so used to Tommy Reid offering him a hair of the dog that refusals had become second nature. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Iced tea would be fine. Thank you.’

  Sister Marie pressed a small button on the side of her desk and a moment later the door opened and a Thai nun opened the door. Sister Marie spoke to her in Thai and the nun nodded and closed the door. ‘So tell me, Inspector Wright. Why is a transport policeman from England investigating Eric Horvitz’s murder?’

  A good question, thought Wright. And one that he wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘There was a similar murder some weeks ago. In London. I thought there might be a connection. The victim was also an American. His name was Max Eckhardt. I don’t suppose you know if Mr Horvitz knew him, do you?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Sister Marie. ‘It’s certainly not a name I’m familiar with.’ She opened one of the desk drawers and took out a Filofax. She flicked through it, then shook her head. ‘No, there’s no Eckhardt here. This is Eric’s. Was Eric’s, I mean.’

  There was a timid knock on the door and the Thai nun carried in a tray containing a jug of iced tea and two glasses which she placed on the desk. Sister Marie murmured her thanks, and waited until the nun had left before picking up the jug. ‘I suppose I’d better be mother,’ she said.

  Wright grinned. He couldn’t help wondering why a sexy, self-assured woman like Sister Marie had turned her back on the outside world and offered her body and soul to Christ. He went over to the desk and took the filled glass from her. ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  She raised her own glass. ‘Slainte,’ she said, toasting him.

  When he’d sat down again, Wright asked her what Eric Horvitz had been doing in Thailand.

  ‘His job, you mean? He didn’t actually have one. He ran the orphanage, took care of any repairs that needed doing.’

  ‘And who paid his salary? Who did he work for?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t you know? This is his orphanage. He bought the building, he paid the running costs, sponsored the older children to go to university.’

  ‘That must cost a fortune.’

  ‘He never talked about money. But whenever we needed it, it was there. The Lord will provide, he used to say, but I know it was his own money.’

  She went suddenly quiet and Wright could sense that she was uneasy talking about Horvitz, as if she was betraying his secrets.

  ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?’ he asked. ‘Anyone who would have profited from his death?’

  ‘He left everything to the orphanage,’ said Sister Marie. ‘We haven’t got the money yet, of course, things take time in Thailand. But his lawyer said we were the only beneficiary in his will.’

  ‘And enemies?’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘Eric had no enemies,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t the sort to make enemies. He was quiet, even tempered, he was at peace with himself.’

  ‘He was a religious man?’

  ‘Oh no. He didn’t believe in God, and I was never able to convince him otherwise.’ She looked across at another chair, a leather armchair almost within reach of her desk, and Wright knew that that was where Horvitz used to sit whenever he visited Sister Marie in her office. He knew also that it would remain Horvitz’s chair for a long time to come and that was why she’d shown him to the one by the window.

  ‘How did you meet him?’ asked Wright.

  ‘I like to think that it was God who sent him to us, despite his lack of belief,’ she said, fingering her glass of iced tea. Wright sipped his. It was sweet and sickly, but he was grateful for the ice. Like the rest of the building, Sister Marie’s office had no airconditioning. ‘Our order had an orphanage in Vietnam, in Saigon,’ she continued. ‘Or Ho Chi Minh City as they insist on calling it these days. Eric came with a group of Americans to look around. They were part of a goodwill tour arranged by some war veterans association. The idea was for the vets to come to terms with the war by meeting the people they’d once fought against. We were part of their itinerary. The orphanage had looked after hundreds of Amerasians who had been abandoned by their mothers.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Seven years ago.’ She frowned. ‘No. Eight.’

  ‘Sister Marie, Max Eckhardt wasn’t on the tour, was he?’

  She frowned and put a hand up to her cowl. ‘No, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t,’ she said eventually. ‘Actually, I can’t be sure, because I wasn’t told all their names. There was a guy called Lehman, Dan Lehman, and a man with an artificial hand called Larry.’ She smiled as if recalling a fond memory. ‘The reason I remember their names is because although they came as part of the goodwill tour they returned a few months later and gave the orphanage a lot of money.’ She paused and sipped her tea.

  ‘How much, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  She held his look for several seconds. ‘A lot,’ she said. ‘Enough to solve all our financial problems. Dan and Larry stayed in Vietnam for a few months then returned to the United States. Eric stayed.’

  ‘Do you know how I can contact them?’ asked Wright.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. We occasionally get Christmas cards from Dan, but he seems to move around a lot. Believe me, none of them would want to hurt Eric. You never saw such close friends.’

  A bell began to ring and seconds later came the sound of children laughing and running down a corridor. It was a happy place and Wright felt that the atmosphere had a lot to do with the fact that Sister Marie was in charge.

  ‘What happened to the orphanage in Vietnam?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s still there, and our Order still runs it, but the Vietnamese made it harder and harder for foreigners like myself and Eric to stay there. It became increasingly difficult for us to get visas and the authorities made it clear they’d rather have the orphanage in Vietnamese hands. It’s still a Co
mmunist country, you know, and the petty bureaucracy has to be seen to be believed. At first we paid off the right people, but after a while even that wasn’t enough and we had to leave.’

  Wright smiled at Sister Marie’s admission of bribery, but he guessed that in her mind the end justified the means. Even so, he couldn’t help but wonder what other transgressions there had been in the nun’s life. He wanted to ask her if she’d always been a nun, or if prior to taking holy orders she’d had a normal life, of pubs and dances and boyfriends. Wright could imagine a lot of broken hearts when Sister Marie turned her back on the outside world and chose a life of chastity and prayer.

  ‘Eric offered to set up a new orphanage here in Bangkok.’ She waved her hand, indicating the room they were in. ‘He paid for everything. The building. The staff. Medical care.’

  ‘And no ulterior motive?’ Wright regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth.

  She stiffened and her eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  Wright smiled awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I think like a policeman. I’m not used to dealing with philanthropists. Everybody I meet has a dirty secret, an axe to grind . . .’ He tailed off as he realised he was rambling.

  ‘Not Eric Horvitz. He was truly a good man.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.’

  She smiled and inclined her head, accepting his apology.

  ‘You said his two friends went back to the States. What about here in Bangkok, does he have many friends here?’

  ‘Some,’ she said. ‘He chose his friends carefully. He played jazz with a group at a bar in Lang Suan.’

  ‘Lang Suan?’