Evil in the Land Without

by Colin Cotterill

  There had been two or three pictures taken at a reception. People were standing around. One of the photos, close-ups of two or three people, he was sure contained a character very similar to Bohmu Din.

  But after a complete sweep through the case, he could find only one of them. It was a long shot of everyone at the party, like a school photo with the guests lined up in rows. He went through the case again, more carefully this time.

  "Why would Bohmu Din be in a photograph in your mom's case?"

  "I’ve no bloody idea. But I'd stake my life on it being him, or his twin brother. The other one's a much better shot, but take a look at this one. See if you can spot him."

  Shirley squinted at the print. It did seem to be a reception. About thirty people in fine, light clothes were lined up in two rows. Most of them were holding glasses with tissue flack-jackets. Someone must have shouted "smile" because they were all smiling.

  "You got a magnifying glass?"

  "Mother's reading glasses should be beside the rocker in the lounge."

  She jumped out from under the covers. If the top weren't bad enough, the bottom made her look like an erotic underwear ad. He looked up briefly then turned his eyes back to the case. "The photos, John," he reminded himself.

  Even after a careful search, he was sure the other photos weren't there. Perhaps that's what had seemed different when he went through the case last time. From the other room he heard, "Darn it, John, if you aren't right."

  She came back, crawled on the bed, and sat back under the sheet "Look."

  He took the picture and the glasses from her. In the back row, the smiling face of Bohmu Din was some thirty years younger. His hair was short, but black. In the front row, standing next to each other but not touching, were his young parents.

  "Christ!"

  "John, I don't understand. This can't be a coincidence."

  He turned and sat on the floor with his back against the bed to catch the light better. He studied the faces through Coletta's spectacles. He went from person to person looking at clothes, jewelry, bags. In the background there was a blurred figure in the shadows.

  " Shirley. See this guy. . . ?"

  She leaned down across his shoulder. He felt her breath as her mouth passed his ear. He trembled slightly.

  "Yeah. He's in uniform." She took the glasses from John.

  "Do you recognize it?"

  "It's dress uniform; the type they use for formal occasions. Not a regular fatigue."

  "But. . . ?"

  "But it could be Burmese."

  "We need a computer."

  "What for?"

  "Look. There are bottles on the table. I can't make out the labels with these things.

  "But we could scan them and blow them up. Good idea."

  "What time is it?"

  "Half five." He stood up. "Two hours enough beauty sleep?"

  "I didn't even get that much. Let's go."

  50

  The only person John knew who had a computer and the equipment they needed was—had been—Bruce. John had a spare key for Susan's place in his bunch. Nobody had been back to the house since they'd whisked her away to Aunt Maud's. He hoped they hadn't been victims of Britain's burglary frenzy.

  Susan lived in Worcester Park, no more than five minute's from where Emma was now hiding her. The drive south out of Greater London was uncluttered and fast at that time of day. Only the traffic lights slowed them down. The phone was back on, and Shirley received their first call:

  "You the police?"

  "Yes."

  "And you're a woman?"

  "Yes. Gotta get up early to catch you out, eh."

  "You want to come and suck my dick?"

  "Thanks. My dentist told me I should keep small dirty objects away from my cavities. Good morning." She switched off. "Good start."

  John laughed. The phone rang again.

  "Good morning."

  "Mr. John Jessel please."

  Shirley froze. John sensed her shock. The colour drained from her face. She could neither speak nor release the phone. John had to prize it out of her grasp.

  "Jessel."

  "Ah, Inspector, good morning. I assume you found your small cabaret yesterday amusing?"

  "Not amusing, General Din. But perhaps the only way I could get to talk to you." He pulled the car over to the side of the dual carriageway and parked. Tears were rolling silently down Shirley's face like rain dripping down a window-pane. She looked straight ahead. Bohmu Din seemed disturbed that John knew his name.

  "My, you do know a lot about me. And what would you like to discuss, Inspector? My surrender? A showdown? The 'take me but don't hurt my sister' scenario? We have so little to talk about. You are both going back to heaven, you know."

  "Well then, before I go, perhaps you could clear up one or two little details . . . about Burma, about what my father, Jim Jessel, did to you in Te Pao." John knew this wasn't the reason for Bohmu Din's call. It wasn't what he expected at all. He felt an enormous rage welling up in the Burmese.

  "That is none of your business, brat."

  "Oh, but you see, Bohmu Din, it is my business. I know all about it. I know how my father—"

  "I have no more—"

  ". . . made a fool of you and took something—"

  "Good-bye Jessel."

  ". . . something very special from you."

  The phone went dead. So did John. He was drained by the short but intense bout.

  "Well, I think that went well, don't you?" His hand was shaking. He looked at Shirley and noticed her tears for the first time. "What is it?"

  "I’m . . . I'm so sorry, John. I was useless. All this time I thought I’d be strong, but just hearing his voice made me. . . ." The sobs filled her throat. He pulled her to him and put his arm around her. They sat silent for a long time, clasping one another like survivors of a disaster.

  51

  Susan let the shower water thud against her back and shoulders. It was so hot, she thought her blood bubbled in her veins. Her skin was red and blotchy from the heat. It was skin that Bruce would never caress, never run his soft beard over again.

  When she was alone like this, she thought about their intimacies and their secrets. She ached to talk to him one last time. She couldn't recall whether she'd remembered to tell him she loved him that last phone call. She really wanted him to have that love with him wherever he'd gone. Knowing Bruce, he was probably complaining about the archangels’ wingspans, his bicycle chained to the Pearly Gates.

  She ran both hands over her stomach. It had proudly rounded out to make room for the new recruit. But this one wouldn't be able to say thank you to the funny man that made her.

  "Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. I do wish she could have seen you, touched you before. . . ."

  She turned off the water and dived into the toweling robe before the unheated house could turn the water on her body to ice. She wrapped a towel around her hair and looked at her plain self in the misted mirror.

  "Hello, Salman," she said to her reflection. "Coletta was right. I could do with a very serious makeover."

  She would have stayed longer in the shower. She would have looked at herself longer in the mirror, and done some preening and plucking, but when you have a four-year-old, you can add five disasters for every extra minute you're away. Emma had left for work at 8:00, so the two fugitives were alone again.

  Eddo always promised to be good while mummy was in the bathroom. But he had a very broad concept of 'good.' 'Helping with the housework' was good, as in when he made the shampoo sandwiches. 'Being kind to animals' was good, like when he taught the ants how to get to the fridge by leaving them a trail of honey. How could you punish a child who was so good?

  She opened the bathroom door and yelled, "Eddo, my son. Watcha doing?"

  There was no answer.

  "Edward Bruce Fossel."

  "I’m busy, Mummy,” she heard him call from the lounge.

  "Good."

  He continued a conversat
ion with himself. She hoped he'd grow out of that by the time he was say, forty. She was on her way to the bedroom to get dressed, but thought better of it and detoured via the kitchen to get herself a drink.

  "What are you busy doing?" she called.

  She heard him say, "Just a minute," then came running into the kitchen.

  "Mother?"

  "Yes, small genius?"

  He climbed up and knelt on a chair at the table. "You and Uncle John says—"

  "Say."

  ". . . say I mustn't talk to strangers."

  "Quite right, too."

  "Well, how about policemen? Are policemen strangers?"

  "Hmmm. That's a good one. You want some juice?"

  "Yes please."

  "Right then. If a policeman's in uniform doing his job, or he shows you his—"

  "Or her."

  "Good. His or her badge, then that's a good stranger. So if a policeman you don't know asks you questions, it's okay to answer."

  "I thought so." She gave him a juice.

  "Thank you. Please may I have one more?"

  "What for, love?"

  "For the policeman in the lounge." He leaned close to Susan's ear and whispered. "He's got holes in his face, like the moon."

  52

  John waited for the scanned photo to appear on the screen. Bruce's equipment was in a basement that looked more like NATO headquarters than a converted coal cellar. It was papered with charts and maps, and the system itself would have flummoxed anyone without two Ph.Ds. That's why Bruce had notebooks containing step-by-step instructions on how to plug things in and turn things on. They were for Susan. She was an artist. She even got lost with the toaster settings.

  The house seemed secure. Nothing on the ground floor had been disturbed, although there was a musty, airless smell. Shirley had opened a window on their way down to the basement.

  The photo, scanned at ten times its original size, appeared in front of them. John zoomed in on the bottles. With a little adjustment, the labels were just about recognizable.

  "Mandalay Beer. So mother and father were in Burma together." He printed out the enlargement. "The next question is 'when'?"

  They looked at the complete picture again and used Bruce's Photoshop to enhance the detail. John seemed to think the fashions were early seventies, and Jim was a much slimmer version than the one in the early pictures with the kids.

  They assumed that some of the darker-skinned Asian men in the group were Burmese. They had short hair and wore gaudy silk shirts. One or two sported cravats.

  "Okay." Shirley leaned back in her chair. "Here's my guess. Judging from the mixture—Indians, Westerners, Africans, mostly couples—I'd say it's a reception for diplomats hosted by the Tatmadaw."

  "Could be UN people, or aid agencies."

  "Could be. But there weren't too many agencies offering help to a junta in those days. And these folks have a look about them, like they're too important to be there. Wait. . . ." She got closer to the screen. "Can you zoom in on this guy?"

  "The one looking down?"

  "Yeah. That's good. . . . Well, hot enchiladas. Look who we have here."

  "Who?"

  "It's U Gyi. He was a key figure in the independence movement, and held a ministerial position in the military government in the sixties. But, like most Burmese with a mind of their own, he upset Ne Win, the big general, and found himself in jail. As soon as they let him out, he fled to the Thai border and took a role in the National League for Democracy. If he was at a reception like this it would have been before 1970."

  "Jim didn't marry Coletta until 1970. If it were earlier than that. . . ."

  "They were in Burma together before they married."

  "That's crazy. They met in Hungary when Dad was there on business. He helped her get out. England was her first time overseas."

  "That's the story."

  "Oh brother. This family gets more complicated with every stone we turn over." He scrolled along the back row and zoomed in so the face of Bohmu Din filled the monitor. "And how do you fit into this mystery, you nasty bastard. I've got a bad feeling about all this, Shirley." He gathered together all the print-outs and took the original photograph from the scanner. "The people who probably have the answers to this puzzle are back where we just came from. I'm going to see Woods."

  "And I'm not?"

  "They'd leave you sitting outside with a cup of tea."

  "Then I think I'd be more use back at Emma's."

  "Good. That's what I thought. But before you go, take this." He wrote something down.

  "What is it?"

  "It's my log-in number for the police network. I doubt Lawless would think of canceling my code. While we're all switched on here, could you get through to the murder squad notice board and see if anything's been posted on there as a result of the press conference?"

  "Ooh. I get to go into the police system? Isn't that illegal or something?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Cool."

  "Okay. I'm off. Don't forget we've all got mobiles. Don't keep anything to yourself."

  "How do I get to Emma's?"

  "Ah. Didn't think of that." He scratched down an address and gave it to her. This is the factory we usually park behind. Can you get a taxi?"

  "Money."

  "Damn. Do I have to do everything for you?" He dredged through his pockets and gave her a handful of change. He smiled, shrugged, and was gone up the stairs.

  *

  For twenty minutes Shirley went through messages the public had left on the open channel, as well as comments and follow-up from the internal police messages. A few people had claimed to have seen the man in the sketch in the Kingston-Epsom area after the broadcast. One even had the sense to jot down the number of his car. But there seemed to be an order out to ignore reports based on Jessel's conference. She noted down the few credible leads and was largely unimpressed with the squad's progress. In fact, there hadn't been any.

  She logged off and looked at Bruce's room. In her place in the States, if she left a room like this untouched for several months, there’d be a layer of dust everywhere. But all the equipment looked store-new. It must have been its location in the cellar, or the English weather.

  She turned off the light and walked up into the house proper. Susan kept an interesting home. It was full of bizarre artwork and curious furniture that all magically blended together to reflect her personality. Eddo must have loved this house. The only thing it was missing was a bathroom. It would have to be on the top floor.

  Shirley had long believed that empty houses enjoy playing tricks on people. They could mess with your mind and plant ideas that you would never have thought to put there yourself. The feeling of walking around an empty house can be an eerie one if your mind tells you it is. This was the first time she'd been alone since Bangkok. She had become used to John being around.

  She climbed the stairs slowly. Each step had its own squeak, like an instrument you play with your feet. Even before she reached the top landing, her instinct told her that something wasn't quite right up there. She stopped on the top step and held her breath, listening for sounds from the three upstairs rooms. All she heard were the steps unsqueaking behind her and the tap dripping water into a bowl in the kitchen. Upstairs was deadly silent.

  She was angry with herself for creating something that wasn't there. She willed herself to go on. The first door, ajar, led to the bathroom, but she'd lost the urge. She peeked in through the crack between the hinges. There was nowhere for anyone to hide in there. And why would anyone be hiding there anyway? There was an ornament beside the bath, quite heavy, thin enough at the neck to hold like a baseball bat. She reached in for it. She had a weapon now, but no free hand.

  The second door was also slightly ajar. Her body was crying out to her to be careful, to go back downstairs, but she had to know what her instincts had smelt. She pushed the door with her foot, listening for sounds. It was Eddo's room. There was a wardrobe. She walked t
o it along the far wall so she could see under his bed.

  To open the wardrobe door and keep hold of the weapon at the same time, she had to use the ends of her fingers that poked from the cast. They had become numb and useless. "One . . . two . . . three," she counted in her head. "Open."

  Toys.

  Two rooms down. One to go. But her nerves let her know she’d been stalling. The vibrations had been coming from the last door, which was shut. From the process of elimination, she knew it had to be Susan and Bruce's room.

  A tap dripping.

  A dusted keyboard.

  Someone was here.

  "He'll have a knife. He'll be by the door waiting,” she thought. “He'll slash at my throat when he sees me standing there." So she knelt. It would give her a fraction of a second. She breathed deeply to regain control. "It's just one man. One small, insignificant old man. The guards in Pa-an were young and strong, and because of me they're dead. I'm not afraid of one old man." She didn't believe what she was telling herself.

  Her heart thumped and her lungs fought against her deep breaths. She counted again, this time in her native tongue, so all the spirits of the Karen warriors would be with her,

  "Ter . . .

  “Khee . . .

  “Ser."

  With her plastered hand she threw back the door and poised to strike. The door swung faster than she expected, with no obstruction, and crashed against the wall.

  There was no Bohmu Din. Not now. But from where she knelt in the doorway she could see everything in the room, and she could hardly believe, nor begin to understand, what she was looking at there.

  53

  “I brought you the mobile," John said, walking into Commander Woods' office. "But your gorilla lady on the door wouldn't let me in with it."

  "I'll tell her to send it over to the people following up on your calls." He picked up the phone.

  "She forcibly removed my beeper and another mobile as well."

  "Then she's doing her job well. Nothing remotely electrical is allowed in these offices that hasn't gone through very strict security checks."