‘And in news just through,’ the anchorman said, ‘sources reveal that murder suspect, Didier de Montpasse, previously faced assault charges in his home town of Sainte Romauld in the Canadian province of Quebec. Police say the foreigner’s history of violent crime is significant.’
‘What the fuck—?’ Jayne swore out loud, attracting anxious looks from the hotel staff. She mumbled an apology and retrieved her key.
Back in her room, she took a couple of painkillers, and lit a cigarette. There was a desk against one wall with a large mirror over it and she sat down and stared at her reflection. Her eyes were puffy and glazed, and her face was drained of colour. Her skin was chafed from using toilet paper to blow her nose, and her lips seemed swollen, as if bruised by kisses.
The man she had kissed the previous evening—her best friend, whom she loved—was the same person they were talking about on the news. The idea that Didier could commit a criminal act of violence was so at odds with his character, she was convinced there must be some mistake.
She picked up the phone, placed a call to Bangkok and had just lit a second cigarette when the connection came through.
‘Your call to Bangkok, Ma’am,’ the operator said. ‘Go ahead, please.’
‘Hello?’
‘Jayne, is that you? Where are you?’
‘Max!’ She paused to swallow the lump that rose in her throat at the sound of her friend’s voice. ‘I’m in Chiang Mai.’
‘Oh, God! So you know about—’
‘Yes, I know about Didier. I…I was with him last night, just before…’
‘Oh, Jayne, I’m so sorry,’ Max said, his own voice shaking.
‘Hang on.’ She put down the receiver, wiped her nose, took a deep breath and picked it up again.
‘Last night, we went to this bar—it was part of Didier’s work—and Nou turned up. They had an argument because Nou’s been gambling again, working the beat to pay off his debts. It got pretty heated, but things seemed to have calmed down by the time I left.’
‘Have you—?’ Max hesitated. ‘The news reports mentioned eyewitnesses to the argument. Has anyone talked with you?’
Jayne frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Have the police interviewed you?’
‘Not yet,’ she said, her mind ticking over. ‘Shit! I should have thought of that.’
‘Hang on a minute. I didn’t mean to imply you should talk to the police. On the contrary, I think it’s best if you get back here as soon as you can and—’
‘But I can explain it,’ she said quickly. ‘I mean, you and I both know there’s no way Didier could’ve killed Nou.’
It took so long for Max to reply that Jayne thought they’d lost the connection.
‘Do we really know that?’ he said finally. ‘I mean, there is the matter of what happened in Canada.’
Jayne felt her face flush. ‘The assault charges,’ she said. ‘I saw it on the news. But that’s got to be bullshit! I can’t believe that.’
‘Oh, Jayne, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this but it’s true. Didier beat up a man, beat him senseless. The charges were dropped, but that doesn’t change what happened.’
‘But Didier would never—’
‘Broken nose, lacerations to the face and arms, three broken ribs, severe concussion—’
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she snapped. ‘Reading from the guy’s bloody medical report?’
‘Well, yes.’
Jayne flushed again. As second secretary to the Australian Embassy, Max would have access to such a document.
‘But it must have been an accident or…or an act of self-defence. I mean, we don’t know anything about the circumstances, do we?’
‘The victim was sixty years old,’ Max said. ‘There was no evidence that a struggle took place. Nor was there any prior history of violence in the relationship between the victim and his assailant.’
‘But—’
‘The victim’s name was Jean-Clément de Montpasse. He was Didier’s father.’
‘Oh shit!’
‘I’m sorry, Jayne,’ Max said. ‘Believe me, I’m as shocked as you are. I mean, you think you know a person well…but sometimes you have to admit you didn’t know them nearly as well as you thought.’
‘But you can’t honestly believe Didier killed Nou!’ Her voice was barely audible above the static on the line.
‘I’m not saying that,’ Max said carefully. ‘All I’m saying is there’s evidence to suggest he was capable of killing Nou. The bottom line is it doesn’t look good.’
‘No,’ she whispered, ‘I guess it doesn’t.’
‘The Canadian Embassy will be organising an official inquiry. Forget going to the police. Just come back to Bangkok as soon as you can.’
She said she’d call him back when she had her travel details and replaced the receiver in its cradle. Her cigarette had burnt itself out, leaving behind a perfect cylinder of ash.
Jayne stared at the remains in the ashtray. With each new development the evidence against Didier was mounting. She’d witnessed the argument between him and Nou, and saw that Didier was unusually angry. There was also the matter of the murder weapon. Jayne had seen Didier use a cut-throat razor, and had accused him of being pretentious when he said it was the only way to get a really close shave.
But what really shocked her was the assault. Even though Didier hadn’t been in Canada since the late seventies, it proved he was capable of violence. And there was a link between Nou’s death and the assault on his father: in both cases the violence was directed at men close to him.
Jayne looked in the mirror. She was a private investigator! Could she have been so wrong about him?
Max supposed he only had himself to blame for bringing them together. Although Jayne was his friend first, once she met Didier, Max knew he’d been passed over. He long suspected her of having fallen in love with Didier, though Jayne scoffed at the idea.
‘Really, Max!’ she had said. ‘There’s nothing more pathetic than a straight woman pining for a gay man.’
Whatever the case, there was no mistaking Jayne’s deep affection for Didier nor, for that matter, his for her.
Max had met Didier in his capacity as the international liaison officer at Chiang Mai University, and found him likeable, if serious. As for Jayne, he’d responded to her ad and hired her to spy on his boyfriend.
‘You did what?’ Didier said when Max told him.
‘I hired a private detective. I knew Boun was up to something. And within forty-eight hours, I had evidence that the little prick was seeing the secretary to the defence attaché on the sly—a photo of them at the Sphinx bar with their hands so far down each other’s pants you’d think they were examining each other for prostate cancer.’
Didier was intrigued and during his next visit to Bangkok, Max invited both him and Jayne to one of his soirées, a premier networking event. A plush apartment in Bangkok’s embassy district was one of the perks of diplomatic life, and the monthly soirées took place in what Max referred to as his salon, a room modelled on the Long Bar at Raffles Hotel in Singapore, boasting marble floors, dark wood panelling, cane furniture and slow ceiling fans. Authentic Singapore slings were served from five o’clock. The night Jayne and Didier met there were around twenty people there, but Max couldn’t recall either of them speaking to anyone but each other.
He watched them exchange business cards on arrival, a ritual greeting throughout southeast Asia.
‘“Discreet Private Investigator, speaks English, French and Thai,”’ Didier read aloud from Jayne’s card. ‘I’ve never met an Australian francophone before. “Experienced in both private and criminal investigations.” What sort of criminal investigations?’
‘Oh, petty theft, fraud, missing persons—that kind of thing.’
‘She’s too modest to tell you,’ Max had interrupted, ‘but one of those missing persons was murdered. And in the process of uncovering that information, Jayne busted a
wildlife smuggling racket.’
‘I’m putting Max on the payroll as my PR agent.’ She smiled at him with exaggerated sweetness, then glanced at Didier’s card. ‘And you’re an academic researcher based in Chiang Mai. You’d have your work cut out for you.’
‘Yes—’
‘He also does outreach work in the clubs and bars,’ Max piped up again, ‘and uses his own money to pay for the condoms he distributes.’
‘An academic with a conscience,’ she said, smiling at Didier. ‘They must be as rare as Australian francophones.’
Max left them at that point to attend to other guests— the German ambassador’s wife needed distracting, lest she complain again about her Thai domestic staff—and it was an hour before he had the chance to check in on their conversation.
‘My career is a case of life imitating art,’ Jayne was saying. ‘All the PIs I read about were savvy and streetwise, flexible and resourceful. Having developed these skills just to survive in Bangkok, I figured I might as well get paid for it.’
‘Why not!’ Didier laughed. ‘Drink?’
She nodded and he signalled for the waiter to bring them another round of cocktails.
‘So what kind of detective novels do you read?’ he said, handing her a glass.
‘I like women writers mostly—Sara Paretsky, Val McDermid, Donna Leon—but not the forensic psychologists. I don’t buy all that stuff about violence being purely pathological.’
‘What about Agatha Christie?’
‘Agatha Christie?’ Jayne pulled a face. ‘It’s a bit old-fashioned. I mean, I read her when I was in my teens.’
‘I like Christie,’ Didier said. ‘Her plots are intricate and you’re always kept guessing whodunit until the very end.’
‘I like Agatha Christie,’ Max offered.
‘The stories aren’t exactly realistic,’ Jayne said, barely glancing at their host. ‘Not like the modern writers. Take James Ellroy, for example. His accounts of police corruption are based on historical events.’
‘All form and no substance!’
‘How can you say that?’ she said, her indignant tone belied by a smile. ‘He’s an amazing writer!’
‘I’ll bet nothing Ellroy ever wrote influenced the way policing is done. Whereas if you take the work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle…’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t believe you!’
‘It’s true! Conan Doyle created new methods of detective work through the Sherlock Holmes stories. He invented the use of plaster moulds to preserve clues, the technique of dusting for fibres and ashes, not to mention his influence on the science of deduction. I guarantee if you read the Sherlock Holmes stories, you’ll pick up a few tips.’
With Jayne’s laughter in his ears and a conversation clearly closed to him, Max moved on to his other guests. He didn’t see Jayne and Didier again until they were leaving. Together.
‘Gotta go, Max,’ Jayne said. ‘I’ve got a surveillance job.’ She stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening.’
‘I’m walking her out,’ Didier said. ‘Thanks, Max. Great night.’
Still within earshot, Max heard Jayne say, ‘Shame I don’t have a Sherlock Holmes novel to take along and study, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Absolument!’ Didier laughed.
Max could have sworn they were flirting.
On returning to Chiang Mai, Didier sent Jayne a copy of A Study in Scarlet with an inscription: To Jayne Keeney, Discreet Private Investigator. May the solutions to all your cases be elementary.
Jayne reciprocated with Sara Paretsky’s Tunnel Vision and the note: I’ll let you know if Holmes comes in handy. Meanwhile, here’s one for you. I figure the title sums up your taste in crime fiction.
They corresponded often after that, sending books and reading lists, visiting each other in Bangkok and Chiang Mai, and their relationship remained flirtatious. Max couldn’t blame Jayne for her part, but he disapproved when Didier played along. It wasn’t fair on Jayne.
Max felt it would be more appropriate if Didier had flirted with him.
She was in a coastal village where the houses were made from disused bomb shelters. Turning a corner, she came face to face with a cow. It lowered its head and, using one of its horns as a prod, steered her out of the village along a path. Then she was on the edge of a cliff, the cow’s horn still digging into her back, staring at the sea, baffled to think it had come to this.
Jayne switched on the lamp, got up and lit a cigarette. Disoriented by the dream, it took her a moment to locate the ashtray. It was on a side-table next to a copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, an early gift from Didier that she often carried with her. Not that she’d ever admit it, but Didier was right about picking up tips from Holmes.
The book reminded her of the night she took him to Baker Street, a Bangkok bar designed to look like a gentlemen’s club. In keeping with the local talent for forgery, the bar’s wood panelling was synthetic, the armchairs vinyl, and the books on the shelves facades of moulded plastic. But with a large movie poster above the bar for The Hound of the Baskervilles starring Basil Rathbone, and cocktails named for characters in the Sherlock Holmes stories, it seemed perfect for their first book club meeting. They’d spent the afternoon scouring secondhand bookshops along Khao San Road, buying a dozen books between them, which lay in plastic bags at their feet as they drank Moriarty and Doctor Watson cocktails and swapped life stories.
Jayne cast her mind back over their conversation, searching for any clues on what happened between Didier and his father. It was the night she figured out he was gay— that penny dropped when he talked about first arriving in Chiang Mai as a twenty-one-year-old student.
‘Back then I thought anything was possible,’ he said. ‘I’d come from a small town where the greatest faux pas was to stand out in a crowd. So imagine how I felt the first time I saw a kratoey. With long hair, painted nails and wearing what looked like a miniskirt, I didn’t pick that he was a boy. The skirt turned out to be flared shorts—part of his school uniform, no less—and he was standing with a group of school kids at a bus stop, laughing. A boy like that would’ve been crucified where I’d come from. But in Thailand, it seemed perfectly acceptable.’
Jayne’s face must have betrayed her scepticism as Didier hastened to add, ‘I was young and naive, Jayne. I’ve learned since then. I know being a kratoey is seen as punishment for sexual indiscretions committed in a past life—that they are tolerated rather than accepted. But back then, it was all new to me. I couldn’t believe it when my first Thai boyfriend turned around after a year together and announced that he was leaving me to get married. He even invited me to the wedding!’
Jayne laughed and shook her head, amused by her own wishful thinking as much as Didier’s story.
‘That, one of my older Thai friends told me, was a case of falling for “a fish in the wrong pond”.’ He drew inverted commas in the air. ‘What I needed to find was “a tree in the same forest”. So I did. I found a guy who swore he’d never give in to family pressure to get married. Trouble was I made the mistake of telling him I had no intention of ever returning to Canada and he left me for a Swedish tourist.’
Still laughing, Jayne flashed him a guilty smile. ‘I’m sorry, Didier. I shouldn’t laugh. But it’s comforting to know I’m not the only one who gets taken for a ride in relationships.’
‘Give me an example—make me feel like less of an idiot.’
‘OK.’ She took a swig from her cocktail and figured she had nothing to lose. ‘When I was starting out as a private investigator I was employed by this Australian guy, Richard Goodman, who’d been ripped off in a card scam. You know the sort of thing. Well-heeled tourist meets friendly local who turns out to be a croupier at the casino. Local says he can teach tourist how to play and win, and tourist agrees to participate in a private game for practice, a wealthy punter having conveniently turned up in the meantime. Then—lo and behold—tourist ends up losing hundreds
of dollars.’
‘People keep falling for stunts like that.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s what I thought,’ she said. ‘See, I did end up tracking down the people behind the racket—a group of Filipinos with a history of that sort of thing—and Richard was grateful. He not only paid my fee, but insisted on wining and dining me as well. One thing led to another and I ended up spending the night with him, only to wake up the next morning and read in the papers that the Filipinos arrested the previous day on fraud charges claimed they’d been set up. The real brains behind the operation, they said, was an Australian man called Ralph Godsell.
‘Needless to say, Richard Goodman aka Ralph Godsell had done a runner in the night. And to really add insult to injury, he left me to pay the hotel bill.’
Didier laughed aloud. ‘Oh, that makes me feel much better.’
‘You’d think I’d have more sense,’ she said with a wry smile, ‘but I get so few offers in this place. Thai men seem to disapprove of me—I’m too loud, I guess—and most farang men prefer the local fare. Not that I blame them. Thai women are beautiful.’ She gestured towards the window overlooking the street. ‘Out there, I feel about as attractive as a sow’s ear in a sea of silk purses.’
‘Hardly an appropriate metaphor,’ Didier smiled.
Jayne blushed. ‘Take no notice, I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Another Moriarty and I’ll be fine.’ She signalled to the waiter. ‘What about you? Has your love life improved?’
‘I do have a partner,’ he said slowly. ‘We’ve been living together for nearly a year. He’s Thai. I guess that makes me one of those farang men who prefer the local fare.’
‘Sorry. That was out of line.’
‘Not at all. I know how it looks. Sanga’s more than ten years younger than me and an ex-bar boy. I’m a thirty-something expatriate who should know better. To be honest, I have no idea if it will last. But Nou—that’s Sanga’s nickname—has always been direct with me.’
Jayne raised her hand. ‘Mate, I’m the last person to criticise anyone else’s choices when it comes to relationships. I was going to say that I trust your judgment, but given your dodgy taste in crime fiction, I’m not so sure.’
Behind the Night Bazaar Page 5