The Dying Beach

by Angela Savage

  Ever since the phone call from Jayne Keeney, Paul had avoided dealing with the possibility that Pla’s work on the power plant—his work—might be implicated in her death. But with twelve hours to kill on the bus from Bangkok to Krabi, he couldn’t put off thinking about it any longer. He placed the photos on the spare seat beside him and stared at them, willing Pla to come to life and explain to him what the hell had happened.

  He recalled the small museum she’d taken him to, which housed prehistoric human remains found during an excavation of a mine site where the power plant was to be developed. According to the exhibit label, the discovery of the 37-million-year-old manut borarn fossils lent weight to the controversial theory that humans evolved simultaneously in different parts of the world. The idea that Thai people might be a breed of their own somehow made Paul feel better about how little he seemed to understand them and what really went on in their country.

  He turned from Pla’s photos to the window, his reflection superimposed on the moving landscape. His face was sluggish with grief even the tinted glass could not disguise, his blue eyes bloodshot and swollen, hair standing on end, two days’ stubble on his cheeks.

  Paul had invited Pla to participate in the consultation process. He was responsible for her involvement. Had she unearthed something that placed her in danger? The last time they’d talked, she’d said something about a story she was following. But Paul wasn’t paying attention, too distracted composing excuses for postponing his trip.

  Tears stung his eyes, turning the landscape into a blur. He turned away from the window.

  35

  They reached Neua Khlong just after eight on Wednesday morning. The busy commercial town was built around a Chinese pagoda with a name—Umm Jingjui Johsugong—only someone like Rajiv could remember. The twelve-storey technicolour pagoda with curlicue finials rose above the surrounding dirt roads, terracotta tiles and corrugated iron like an exotic plant sprouting from a junkyard.

  Charoen Sand and Gravel Supplies was situated on the edge of town, a broad gravel driveway leading to a compound where buildings and vehicles jostled for space. A muster of labourers, dark skin glistening with sweat in the early morning heat, shovelled gravel into the tray of a truck parked in the yard.

  Along the right boundary were sheds, an ablution block and a larger version of the huts they’d seen in Pakasai village, facilities for the workers, judging from the motorbikes and bicycles parked nearby. The left side of the compound was occupied by a pale yellow, single-storey house with a sign on the door listing office hours; Jayne recalled the Ban Pakasai headman saying Bapit slept close to his money.

  Her knock was answered by a young woman wearing a beige twin-set that made her look like a stewardess on a discount airline. The woman opened the door but did not invite them in.

  ‘Sawadee ka di chan. I wonder if I might meet with Khun Bapit.’

  The woman sniffed. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Would you like to make an appointment?’

  ‘Ah. We were hoping Khun Bapit was free to meet with us now. We’ve come a long way to see him.’

  ‘I’ll need to check the appointment calendar—’ she began.

  ‘It’s okay, Khun Siri,’ a voice said from inside.

  A gaunt man with Chinese features appeared in the doorway as his secretary, Siri, faded from view. He peered at them over the top of gold-rimmed glasses. ‘Can I help you?’

  Jayne had special business cards for when circumstances called for a less-is-more approach. Name, phone number and the title ‘Consultant’. She handed one to Bapit.

  ‘I’ve come in relation to the power plant project,’ she said. ‘I’ve been engaged by the company to monitor the progress of the public relations strategy.’

  ‘I see.’ Bapit looked at her name card and ran his fingers through hair that was glossy and black on top, silvery-white at the roots. ‘Please come in, Khun Jayne.’

  They passed through a foyer that doubled as reception, where the po-faced secretary, Siri, sat at a computer, and entered an office-cum-living-room. Rajiv stationed himself just inside the door.

  Bapit offered Jayne a couch of dark wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, taking a matching throne for himself—furniture so uncomfortable Jayne suspected it was designed expressly to expedite business dealings. An air conditioner blew an arctic wind above their heads.

  ‘Your colleague won’t join us?’ Bapit nodded towards Rajiv.

  ‘He’s security,’ Jayne said.

  ‘Security?’

  ‘We’ll get to that.’ Jayne took a notebook and pen from her bag. ‘As I explained I’m here to monitor the PR strategy. I understand, Khun Bapit, you have supported the power plant since its inception.’

  ‘Yes.’ He gestured with Jayne’s business card towards Rajiv. ‘I’m surprised I wasn’t briefed on your visit.’

  ‘It was the company’s wish that I conduct what they call a spot check,’ Jayne said. ‘A random investigation of what’s actually happening on the ground, rather than only what people might want the company to see. Briefing anyone on my visit would defeat the purpose.’

  ‘I see.’

  Siri appeared with a tray and unloaded a pot of tea, two small ceramic cups and a plate bearing two green mangoes and a mound of chilli salt. Bapit let her pour the tea but waved her away before she could demonstrate her fruit-cutting skills. She left the blade of her small paring knife pointed at Jayne, who decided not to take it personally.

  ‘As an early supporter of the project, your opinions are particularly valuable,’ she continued. ‘How would you characterise current attitudes towards the project among villagers closest to the site?’

  Bapit puffed out his chest, which, being such a thin man, made him look like a cobra. ‘I believe the villagers are finally starting to appreciate the opportunities the power plant will bring them.’

  ‘Is that your opinion, or do you have evidence of this?’ Jayne asked.

  ‘I attended the most recent round of consultation meetings in Ban Pakasai, Ban Huay Sok and Ban Laem Kruad, and I heard how the villagers spoke about the project. Sure, they had their concerns in the past. But the experts have listened to their problems and come up with solutions every time. To be honest, I think the company has been very generous. Almost excessively so.’

  They should put this guy on the company’s PR payroll, Jayne thought.

  ‘Are the villagers along Khlong Pakasai concerned at all about the transportation of oil by barge along the canal?’

  ‘Yes, but they understand the company is investigating a pipeline option.’

  She pretended to take notes. ‘And you don’t detect any other problems in the villages at this time?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Bapit said. ‘The project remains on schedule, right? The contracts are…?’

  ‘Outside my terms of reference,’ she said. ‘I’m only qualified to talk about the public relations aspect.’

  Bapit’s jaw tightened.

  ‘But I’ve no reason to believe there are any delays,’ she added.

  He let out his breath. ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘So, you haven’t noticed any fallout from the death of the young woman—let me check her name…’ Jayne pretended to rifle through her papers. ‘Chanida Manakit, known as Pla.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I understand Nang Pla assisted many villagers in their negotiations with the company over the power plant. There’s concern her death will alarm people if it’s linked in any way to her role on the project.’

  ‘But she died in a drowning accident,’ Bapit said.

  ‘Yes, but you know how village gossip is.’ Jayne paused to sip her Chinese tea, the aroma like cut grass. ‘What about the death of the flatmate, Khun Suthita? Or the farang woman whose body was found in the Krabi River? No one’s suggested any links to the power plant project?’

  The colour seemed to drain from Bapit’s face. ‘I don’t know what you m
ean.’

  ‘The company wants to know if word on the street is linking these deaths to the project.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Bapit said.

  ‘So do you know who killed these women, Khun Bapit?’ Jayne said.

  At that moment, a young man burst into the room. Built like a weightlifter and wearing a red satin biker jacket, he looked like he’d slept rough.

  The blood rose in Jayne’s face. She glanced at Rajiv. His face remained impassive behind his sunglasses, but his bobbing Adam’s apple told her he’d reached the same conclusion. The man in the red satin biker jacket was Sigrid’s attacker.

  The young man didn’t seem to notice Rajiv and ignored Jayne. ‘Uncle, I’m sorry to be late again but—’

  ‘Loong wah plian pen wan lang dee gua,’ Bapit said through clenched teeth. ‘Better we talk later. Get to work.’

  The young man persisted. ‘My motorbike broke down and while I was getting help, someone stole it and—’

  ‘Othong, I said we’ll deal with this later.’ The anger in the older man’s voice gave them all a jolt. It was rare for a Thai person not to sugar-coat his displeasure, especially in front of strangers.

  Jayne didn’t move, though her mind was racing. Othong had attacked Sigrid. She was sure of it. Chances were he’d killed the other three women, too. He was Bapit’s nephew. Surely he was acting on the older man’s orders. She and Rajiv were in deep shit if Bapit saw through their ruse.

  She kept her eyes downcast as the young man backed out of the room. She thought they were in the clear until Othong doubled back and stopped in front of her.

  36

  He didn’t notice the man standing by the door until he was on his way out. Black skin, like a sea gypsy. Othong looked from the dark man to the farang girl on the couch and back again.

  ‘Uncle, do you know who these people are?’

  ‘Othong, if I have to tell you one more time—’

  ‘Uncle, these are the foreigners who have Pla’s notebook.’

  ‘When will you get it into your thick skull that I am not interested in Khun Pla’s notebook.’

  ‘But I thought—’ Othong began.

  ‘You don’t think,’ his uncle said. ‘That’s the fucking problem.’

  Othong couldn’t believe his ears. How could his uncle insult him like this? In the presence of strangers, no less.

  ‘Uncle thinks he knows everything,’ Othong said, still using the polite form of address despite his distress. ‘Why won’t Uncle listen? Othong killed people to get that notebook for Uncle and now, when it’s sitting right in front of him—’

  Othong looked at the farang girl. She had her hand inside her bag and was trying to use her phone without anyone noticing.

  ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’ He snatched the bag, knocking the phone out of her hands. It hit the tiled floor, dislodging the battery. Othong upended the bag and shook out the contents. ‘Where is it?’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dark-skinned man by the door move towards him. He shuffled faster through notepads, books, pens, a wallet. ‘Where’s the notebook?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The farang woman stood up. ‘Khun Bapit, this is unacceptable.’

  Othong threw the bag aside and grabbed her by the throat. ‘Where’s the fucking notebook?’

  She gasped for breath and tried to kick him. But Othong had learned his lesson and held her at arm’s length. The dark-skinned man rushed forward. Othong turned, expecting to find a gun in his face, and to use the farang girl as a shield. But the man was unarmed. Best he could manage was to jump on Othong’s back and attempt to grab him around the neck with about as much force as a child clambering for a piggyback ride.

  Othong shrugged him off. The man fell, hitting his head on one of Uncle’s Chinese chairs. He didn’t get back up.

  A choked cry came from the woman. Othong loosened his grip to allow her to speak.

  ‘Dog fucker—’

  He put both hands around her neck but she slipped from his grasp.

  Othong reeled off-balance and slumped to the floor. Pain flooded his skull, blurring his vision. It took a moment to register his uncle standing over him, holding a bottle of whisky in his hand by the neck. The label was smeared with blood. Othong’s blood.

  Othong tried to sit, managed to prop himself against a leg of the Chinese couch. He raised his hand to the back of his head. It felt like sponge. His hand came away wet with blood.

  Through the ringing in his ears, he caught snatches of conversation.

  ‘…he’s moving…’

  ‘…nothing broken?’

  ‘Roo suek sia jai…I didn’t realise…’

  He became aware of the farang woman and his uncle moving the other man out of reach. Othong’s head might be smashed in, but they were still frightened of him. The thought made him laugh.

  ‘…in shock.’

  ‘…head injury…’

  ‘How long…’

  The voices again. His uncle and the farang woman. Talking about him.

  ‘Why did Uncle do that?’ he muttered.

  ‘What’s that, boy?’ Despite having clubbed him with a glass bottle, Uncle’s tone was almost gentle. He crouched beside Othong and leaned in close.

  ‘Why did Uncle do that to his own nephew?’ Othong tried again.

  ‘The killing has to stop. Too many women have died.’ He patted Othong’s shoulder. ‘I made a mistake when I helped you cover up that girl’s death. I wanted to believe you when you said it was an accident. But you killed again.’

  ‘What’s Uncle saying?’

  ‘I know about the farang girl,’ Bapit said.

  ‘No—’

  ‘I found her camera. I found it under the floorboards in the spare room. It was with Khun Suthita’s wallet.’ Bapit pointed the base of the whisky bottle at him. ‘What kind of idiot keeps souvenirs of his murder victims?’

  Another insult. Othong’s anger surfaced from his swamp of pain. ‘It doesn’t matter what I do. It’s never good enough. After we lost Vidura—’

  ‘Don’t you dare mention my son’s name,’ Bapit spat. ‘You are not worthy to be his dog.’

  Othong’s fist found his uncle’s face and the old man crashed to the floor. He landed badly, clutching his arm, the bottle slipping from his grasp. Othong sprang onto his haunches, snatched the bottle and smashed it against the coffee table. The end broke off in a satisfying shower of glass.

  He brought the broken bottle down on his uncle’s face, watched it puncture and bleed. He hit him again and again, his rage fuelled by years of humiliation.

  ‘Kor rong!’ the farang cried. ‘Please stop.’

  Othong had forgotten she was in the room. He paused with the broken bottle midair. Blood dripped from the jagged edge onto what was no longer recognisable as his uncle’s face. Othong let the broken bottle clatter to the floor and averted his eyes.

  ‘Don’t make it any worse for yourself, little brother.’ The farang’s voice was shaky, gentle. ‘The police will be here soon, and you don’t want to add—’

  ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have the chance to call the police.’

  ‘But your uncle’s secretary will have heard the struggle and—’

  Othong’s laugh sounded like the bark of a feral dog. ‘Khun Siri doesn’t do anything without my uncle telling her to. And Uncle’s not in any position to be issuing any orders right now.’

  He bent down to take a closer look at the old man. Bapit neither moved nor made a sound, but Othong felt the floodwaters of pain rise again. He rocked back on his heels, head throbbing, black spots before his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut, took several deep breaths. When he opened his eyes, the farang was edging towards the door.

  ‘If you leave this room, I will kill your friend,’ he said.

  The farang stopped with her hand on the doorhandle and looked at him. Mustering all his remaining strength, Othong hoisted himself up, using the Chinese couch f
or leverage. No sooner did he make it to his feet than he had to sit back down again. He’d never actually sat on the good Chinese furniture before.

  He touched his fingertips to the back of his head again. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Old man stronger than he looks?’ the farang said, moving towards him.

  Othong grimaced.

  ‘He seems like a hard man,’ she continued. ‘Difficult to please.’

  A different kind of pain stung Othong’s eyes. He’d tried to be a son to Bapit, but the old man had only ever treated him with contempt. He’d not only insulted him, but betrayed him, too. It wasn’t right. Family was supposed to be everything.

  The farang moved closer, her eyes darting from Othong to the man on the floor and back again. Only the coffee table stood between them.

  Othong forced himself up again, swept his hand around the room. ‘This is all your fault,’ he snarled.

  He lunged at her. She dropped to the ground and sprang back up with something in her hand. Othong couldn’t see what it was. His head was spinning and his vision blurred. He felt propelled forward as though running down a steep hill.

  By the time he registered the knife, he couldn’t have stopped even if he wanted to. He embraced her like a lover and fell exhausted into her arms.

  37

  Bapit’s office looked like a horror movie set, the floor littered with bodies and blood, one body piled on another in a pool of blood. The body on top—Bapit’s nephew, if Sergeant Yongyuth was not mistaken—was not moving. The one underneath flapped its arms and legs like a beetle pinned beneath a rock.

  Sergeant Yongyuth snapped on a pair of latex gloves and rolled Othong over onto his back. A farang women sprang out from under him, covered in blood, though evidently not her own.

  ‘Rajiv!’

  She ran over to a man Yongyuth didn’t recognise—South Asian at a guess—who was throwing up into a dustbin. The man looked like he’d taken a beating, though not as badly as Othong and Bapit.

  Yongyuth felt Othong for a pulse, surprised to find one. He signalled for Officer Da to take over and hastened to Bapit’s side. The old man was alive but only just. Bloodied saliva bubbled from his mouth. Yongyuth hoped this was due to the facial injuries and not internal bleeding. He moved Bapit into the recovery position but was loath to do more without knowing what he was dealing with.