The bruises looked like black pansies scattered across Rajiv’s back and shoulders. Jayne brushed them with her lips, smelling the hospital on his skin. Rajiv shivered as she kissed the back of his neck while her fingers worked their way down his spine and into the gap between his legs.
‘Jayne, please,’ he protested, rolling away from her touch. ‘I am feeling like my skull has been split in two with an axe and every bone in my body aches.’
‘Perhaps there’s something I can do to relieve your pain,’ she said, reaching for his cock.
‘Please, no.’ There was no strength in the hand that pushed her away, but his tone of voice stopped Jayne in her tracks. ‘After the day we have had, are you not at all tired?’ Rajiv said softly. ‘I am more than exhausted.’
‘Sorry, my love.’
Jayne watched him fall asleep, envying him. The successive waves of adrenaline that had flooded her body throughout the day had not yet subsided. She was crazy to think Rajiv would be up for having sex in his condition, but sex felt like what she needed to restore some balance.
She pulled a sarong around her and headed outside, the air still and hot. There were few sounds beyond the trilling of geckoes and the odd growl of a motorbike. Ao Nang was a town that retired early. Jayne lit a cigarette, deriving strange comfort from smoking in the dark.
She saw the light come on outside Paul’s bungalow and ducked instinctively as he emerged carrying a bottle of whisky. Screened by a shrub, she watched him take a seat and put his feet up on the balcony railing. Jayne cringed—showing the soles of the feet was considered extremely poor manners in Thailand—but she supposed he was unlikely to offend anyone at this time of night. He took a swig from the bottle, grimaced, took a second, and looked directly at her.
At least it felt like he was looking at her. Jayne didn’t think he could see her. She shielded the glowing orange tip of her cigarette with her hand, guiding the butt into a mosquito coil holder on the ground.
She stayed hidden, watching him drown his sorrows. She toyed with the idea of joining him, craving the soporific effects of the whisky. But something stopped her. She told herself it was out of respect for his privacy, but it wasn’t that. Paul was both handsome and needy. And Jayne had once been a sucker for handsome, needy men.
She sneaked back inside and paused to listen to Rajiv’s deep, regular breaths. Confident he was sleeping, she let herself into the bathroom and arranged her sarong on the tiled floor. She lay down, put her hands between her legs and tried not to think about handsome, needy men.
42
Jayne spotted the empty Mekhong whisky bottle on the balcony and knew Paul would be sleeping off a mean hangover. When he hadn’t surfaced by the time she and Rajiv set out to meet Sergeant Yongyuth, she left a note under his door, slipping a strip of painkillers inside the envelope.
She hired the motorbike for a second day to make the journey to the Muang Krabi police station. Rajiv intended to accompany her but made it only to the end of the street. His shoulders were too sore to grip the back of the pillion seat and he was reluctant to cling to Jayne, given the heat and the cultural taboos about touching in public. She ferried him back to the guesthouse and promised to return as soon as she could.
Sergeant Yongyuth appeared within moments of Jayne asking for him, looking drawn and rumpled like he hadn’t slept. He ushered her into a small windowless room that felt no less claustrophobic for being a cheery shade of pink.
‘There is good news.’ Relief enlivened his tired face. ‘Khun Bapit regained consciousness last night. The doctors say he has a strong chance of making a full recovery, apart from the extensive scarring, of course.’
Jayne nodded, suppressing images of Bapit’s slashed and battered face.
‘I was able to interview him earlier this morning,’ the police sergeant continued. ‘He has verified your account of the events of yesterday morning and lays full responsibility for the violence at his nephew’s feet.’
Jayne held her tongue, waiting to see what else the police sergeant had for her.
‘Khun Bapit admits to hitting Othong with the whisky bottle. In fact, the forensic report says the bullet mightn’t have killed him if not for his pre-existing head injuries.’
So Sergeant Yongyuth hadn’t shot to kill Othong. Jayne kept her expression neutral.
‘Not only did you clearly act in self-defence, it seems nothing you or your partner did made any difference to the outcome of events,’ he said. ‘Given this, and Khun Bapit’s sworn statement, I see no real need to involve you any further in this case. You’re free to leave Krabi at any time.’
It was a good offer. Being involved in a local murder case was messy for all of them. Police scrutiny of any kind was bad for Jayne and Rajiv’s business, while Sergeant Yongyuth would no doubt welcome the chance to tie up loose ends without reference to Jayne’s face-saving interventions and the complicating presence of farangs.
‘What about the murders?’ she asked.
‘Khun Bapit confirmed he found evidence of the two murders in Othong’s room, that of the farang, Khun Annabel, and the Thai woman Nang Suthita. With forensics and Khun Bapit’s testimony, we expect to be in a position to resolve both crimes.’
‘What about the death of Pla—Miss Chanida?’
‘Khun Bapit is certain his nephew was not involved in her death. Othong was with his uncle the night Miss Chanida died.’
‘You believe him?’
The police sergeant sighed. ‘Khun Bapit has admitted his nephew was responsible for the deaths of two innocent young women. There is no face to be saved in lying about a third.’
‘Unless Khun Bapit himself was involved in arranging the murder.’
Sergeant Yongyuth rubbed his temples. ‘Khun Bapit is devastated by what has happened. He admits a thoughtless comment he made about Miss Chanida’s death may have given Othong the wrong idea and set in train the chain of events that led to the tragic murders.’
‘So he admits the deaths are connected,’ Jayne said.
‘Only in Othong’s warped mind.’
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
‘How do you think Pla died?’ Jayne asked.
‘My colleagues in Ao Nang are treating it as an accident.’
‘But what do you think?’
‘It’s not about what I think,’ he said. ‘It’s about the evidence. And the motive.’
Yongyuth was starting to slur his words. As much as it pained her, Jayne knew there was nothing more to be gained by grilling the exhausted police sergeant.
She signed for the passports and left the station, pausing to check the bike was still in the shade, and headed for a nearby coffee shop. She ordered a coffee with condensed milk. Unsolicited, the shopkeeper also brought her khanom, coconut sweets wrapped in banana-leaf parcels.
Despite the caffeine and sugar rush, Jayne felt deflated. They’d come so close to uncovering the truth behind Pla’s death only to fall at the last hurdle. She ruled out ambushing Bapit in his hospital bed with a cross-examination. For all she wanted to believe Othong responsible for Pla’s death, Sergeant Yongyuth’s words rang true. What would stop Bapit from admitting Othong’s involvement in three murders as opposed to two, other than the truth?
Jayne knew what position Rajiv would take in light of these developments. He’d say they’d done their best. But it was Thursday—day five of his ‘seven maximum’—and in the absence of any kind of breakthrough, he would insist they couldn’t afford to pursue the case any longer.
He’d be right. Jayne’s challenge was to not hate him for it.
She had to get over the thought of having failed Pla. She had to trust, as the Thais did, that karmic retribution would get the perpetrator in the next life, if not this one. She had to find peace in the lack of resolution, to learn to live with the mystery. None of this came naturally to Jayne. But neither did working in partnership, and she was proving capable of adapting to that.
Righteous anger had served he
r well when she was single. But it was not the way forward at this point in her life. It made no sense to insist on pursuing justice for Pla, a virtual stranger, at the expense of her relationship with Rajiv.
It was time for Jayne to see if she could let go.
43
Paul smiled when he opened Jayne’s envelope, in spite of his splitting headache. He washed down two Panadols with a bottle of Red Bull and stayed under the shower until they kicked in. At the guesthouse café he ate scrambled eggs, bacon and a double order of the singed sweet white bread that passed for toast in this part of the world. He’d just ordered a coffee when Rajiv materialised.
‘Hi,’ Paul said. ‘Care to join me?’
The Indian man tilted his head from side to side. Paul was unsure until Rajiv sat down whether he meant yes or no.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
Paul signalled for a second cup. ‘Tell me, mate, I’m curious. How the hell did you get into the detective business?’
Rajiv smiled for what struck Paul as the first time since they’d met.
‘One day Jayne Keeney is coming into my uncle’s bookshop on Khao San Road in search of a crime novel. Next thing you know, I am playing Doctor Watson to her Sherlock Holmes.’
‘So you worked in a bookshop before this?’
‘I was merely helping out during my uncle’s convalescence.’ Rajiv handed Paul a business card. ‘As you will be seeing from my qualifications, my professional background is in computer programming and data analysis.’
Paul noted the string of letters after Rajiv’s name, the undergraduate qualifications in computer science, the Masters degree in business management. The guy was a geek.
‘I’m guessing the detective business is more exciting than computer programming.’
That ambiguous nod again. ‘Sometimes too exciting.’
They paused to allow the waitress to pour their coffee.
‘I’m guessing life with Jayne is never going to be quiet,’ Paul continued. ‘She strikes me as an adrenaline junkie. Am I right?’
Rajiv frowned and Paul wondered if he understood.
‘I would not be putting it that way,’ Rajiv said after a moment. ‘Jayne is a very good detective. She’s also the most unconventional person I have ever met.’
Paul smiled. ‘So what does your family think of her?’
‘They have not yet had the pleasure of becoming acquainted.’ Rajiv reached for the sugar and winced as though it caused him pain.
‘You okay?’ Paul said. ‘Jayne said you took a bit of a hammering yesterday.’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Rajiv said stiffly.
‘Mate, I’ve sustained enough injuries on the footy field to know what pain looks like.’
Rajiv shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think Jayne Keeney will be the death of me.’
Paul raised his coffee in a mock toast. ‘But what a way to go, hey?’
Rajiv touched his cup to Paul’s.
‘Where is your partner, by the way?’
‘She is having an appointment with the police,’ Rajiv said.
‘Oh?’
‘A formality only.’
‘I hope she’s back soon. I need to find out if there’s anything special I should prepare for the funeral. A Thai colleague told me to wear a white shirt and black pants. But do I bring flowers?’
‘Those closest to the deceased usually take flowers.’
Paul wasn’t sure whether that meant him or not.
‘Only you should not be smelling any flowers you intend to give to the monks or your nose will be deformed in the next life. That is what Thai people believe.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘And be taking care not to spit. Thai people believe it will bring bad luck if you spit at a funeral.’
‘Right,’ Paul said. ‘I mean, I don’t normally spit in public. Is there anything else I should know? Other than the obvious ones like not touching people on the head or pointing with my feet.’
‘Thai people believe you shouldn’t point your finger at a monk or you will lose your finger.’
Paul wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously.
‘They also say not to attend a cremation if you have a scratch or it will become infected,’ Jayne piped up as she joined them. ‘But we’re not going to let that stop us.’
Rajiv smiled as if caught out. ‘These are just superstitions I am telling him.’
‘You’re probably freaking him out.’ She turned to Paul. ‘The rule with Thai funerals is follow the lead of the Thais. The villagers will let us know what to do. Be prepared to be singled out for stuff because you’re a farang. We bring honour to the deceased by being there. No one will care if you make a mistake. Don’t worry.’
‘And don’t spit. I get it,’ Paul said, winking at Rajiv. ‘Tell me, Jayne, was your morning as enlightening as mine?’
She sat down at their table, placing a red, white and blue plastic bag on the ground next to Paul. ‘The good news is the old man, Bapit, looks like he’ll pull through.’
‘Is there bad news?’ Paul asked.
‘The police have cleared Othong of any involvement in Pla’s death. I’m sorry, but it looks like we’re back to square one.’
‘But we do not have the means—’ Rajiv began.
Jayne raised her hand. ‘I’m not suggesting we extend the investigation. I know we can’t afford it. I’m just sorry it’s come to this.’ She turned to Paul. ‘Everything Pla owned is in that bag, including her notes from the consultations. You should have it.’ She looked at the bag as though hesitant to let it go.
‘You’ve done your best,’ Paul said, aware of sounding hollow. ‘More than anyone could have asked.’
‘Except maybe Pla herself,’ Jayne said.
Paul leaned forward and touched Jayne’s arm. ‘Pla would have been overwhelmed by your efforts on her behalf. Both your efforts,’ he added, seeing the look on Rajiv’s face.
Jayne stood up. ‘At least we can give Pla a decent send-off. Let’s meet back here at four. We’ll swing past the Krabi market and pick up supplies on the way to the temple.’
Rajiv stood up. ‘I’ll come with you.’ He pulled a wallet from his pocket but Paul waved him away.
‘Let me shout you a coffee, mate.’ Paul watched them leave. It might have been his imagination, but Jayne seemed diminished somehow, as if the spring had left her step. Rajiv must have sensed it, too, as Paul saw him place an arm around Jayne’s shoulders. She responded by leaning into him as though sad, or exhausted, or both.
Paul gingerly opened the bag she’d left for him and rifled briefly through the contents. Everything Pla owned, Jayne had said. In his emotional state, Paul found it heartbreaking that she could have accumulated so little—as though she’d known she wasn’t long for this world.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and hooked out Pla’s wallet and notebook. He had no idea what to do with the rest of her things. His first impulse was to ask Jayne for advice, but he remembered her head against Rajiv’s chest and thought better of it. Singh, the hotel owner, could probably help.
He paid the bill and headed back to his room to iron his funeral clothes.
44
While Rajiv had read up on the customs, Jayne was the only one of them who’d attended a Thai funeral before, although she didn’t elaborate on the circumstances. With businesslike efficiency, she steered Rajiv and Paul to the section of the market devoted to temple offerings and loaded them up with monks’ robes and a floral wreath. Paul paid for it all, including the white cotton shawl Jayne chose to cover her sleeveless black dress.
The Australian man looked uncomfortable in his formal attire. His cheeks were flushed and there was a spot of blood on his shirt collar from a shaving cut. From the moment they descended from the songthaew outside the temple, he stuck close to Jayne as if she could somehow shield him from the inevitable attention of the crowd.
Pla’s coffin had been moved f
rom the hall where the chanting took place to the crematorium in the temple grounds, where it rested alongside a stool with a tray on it. A strip of gold cloth from beneath the coffin lid hung across the tray. A framed photo of Pla, unsmiling in her Barracuda Tours shirt, was propped against the coffin, enlarged from an ID photo, judging from the poor quality.
Rajiv had read there was often entertainment at Thai funerals—theatrical performances, even dancing—but Pla’s was a simple affair. The headman from Pakasai village, Amnat, stepped forward, wearing long pants and a button-down shirt so new it had fold marks from the packaging. He cleared his throat before launching into a speech.
‘Amnat is talking about Pla’s life,’ Jayne translated for Paul’s benefit. ‘Miss Chanida was born in the town of Khanom in Nakhon Si Thammarat province in 1974. She lost her parents at a young age and was raised by an aunt. She was a hard worker. She taught herself English. She came to Krabi two years ago. She was a popular tour guide in Ao Nang, a good swimmer. He’s making a joke about her being called Fish and swimming like a fish…’ Her voice faltered and Rajiv suspected it was the unsolved mystery of Pla’s death that stuck in her throat.
‘He says Pla helped the villagers throughout Neua Khlong district in their negotiations over the power plant. He says thanks to Pla, the mosque in Pakasai village has been repaired and Huay Sok village will have access to clean water.’ She paused again.
‘Is he saying something about foreigners?’ Paul whispered.
‘He’s acknowledging us, Pla’s farang friends who are here today and who have supported this funeral ceremony. He is sad that no one from Pla’s family could be here.’
It seemed to Rajiv that there was more to it but Jayne didn’t translate the details.
‘Amnat is now inviting the mourners who’ve brought robes for the monks to present them. That’s your cue, Paul.’
The Australian stepped forward. Even stooping, he was head and shoulders above everyone else. He placed the robes they’d bought on the tray in front of the coffin and backed away with his hands pressed to his forehead. A young monk came forward to accept them. The next to donate robes was Mae Yada, the matron from Pakasai village, followed by a small group from Barracuda Tours.
The Dying Beach Page 19