Behind the Night Bazaar

by Angela Savage

  He scoffed.

  ‘No, really,’ she said. ‘Truth is, you probably had about as much chance of bringing down Ratratarn as a Thai cop would’ve had going up against…oh, what was the Queensland police commissioner’s name?’

  ‘Terry Lewis?’

  ‘Yeah, Terry Lewis.’

  Mark narrowed his eyes. ‘You didn’t seem to feel that way before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that a few nights ago, you were all for trying to bring down Ratratarn and the other cops. Why the sudden change of heart?’

  ‘I guess I didn’t realise what we were up against. Or maybe I just didn’t want to admit it.’ She forced a smile. ‘I mean, who’d have predicted Ratratarn would bite off the hand that feeds him?’

  She realised, too late, that it was a mistake to try to make light of it.

  ‘Jesus, Simone! We’re talking about the arsehole who killed your friend. Don’t you care about that any more?’

  ‘Of course I care!’ She felt her face redden.

  ‘Then how the fuck can you joke about it?’ Mark banged his empty glass on the table. ‘In fact, how come you’re so bloody calm about the whole thing? It’s as if what happened tonight didn’t really come as a surprise to you at all.’

  It took all the nerve Jayne had to look him in the eye. ‘What are you implying?’

  Mark held her gaze and Jayne was sure he could see right through her. The whisky in her stomach turned to acid and she felt a trickle of sweat run down her back. She couldn’t even trust herself to butt out her cigarette, sure her trembling hands would give her away.

  But in the next moment, Mark appeared to deflate. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, slumping back into his chair. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that I’m…I’m so pissed off…and tired. I’m so tired…’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette and reaching for his hands.

  He looked up with such a sad smile that Jayne could have kicked herself. Mark didn’t need her to rationalise why the operation didn’t work. He only wanted her reassurance that everything was going to be all right—even if they both knew it wasn’t.

  ‘Why don’t you finish this,’ she said gently, pushing her third, untouched whisky towards him, ‘and we’ll get out of here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Look, I really am sorry—’

  ‘Shh,’ she stopped him. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I just wish…’ His voice trailed off as he brushed away a tear of frustration with the back of his hand. ‘I just wanna go home.’

  Mark knew he’d be sent back to Canberra. He’d probably be given a desk job and forced to suffer the indignity of debriefing with a counsellor. While he might have fallen just short of career suicide, he was assured of social death. It was a measure of how strongly he felt about Simone that he could face the prospect at all. If nothing else came of his disastrous time in Chiang Mai, at least he had her.

  Mark slowly woke and winced at the memory of the night before. Not because he regretted the sex—far from it. But he regretted not having made more of an effort to disguise how much he’d needed it, how much he needed her. Despite her apparent calm, Mark knew Simone had ghosts she needed to lay to rest. She didn’t need the added burden of nursing his as well.

  He opened his eyes and became aware of two things in the same moment: his head hurt and Simone wasn’t in the bed beside him. He rubbed his forehead and glanced towards the bathroom. The door was open, but the light was off and there was no noise coming from inside. With a frown, he pulled back the sheet and staggered to use the toilet.

  He then pulled on a pair of boxer shorts, phoned reception and asked if there were any messages. Drawing a blank, he called the hotel restaurant, waiting five minutes before being told Simone Whitfield was not having breakfast.

  His scowl deepening, Mark returned to the bathroom in search of something for his headache. It was only then he saw the envelope propped up against his shaving kit. He picked it up and tore it open. The note inside was written on a single page of hotel stationery.

  Dear Mark,

  There is no easy way of saying this, so I’ll get to the point.

  Your instincts were correct: the Chiang Mai police knew about your move against Kelly, which is why the Kitten Club was raided when it was. They knew because I told them.

  I did it as a last resort, believing it was the only way that any sort of justice would be done. You have to believe me when I say it was business, not personal.

  I know you won’t be able to forgive me. But I’m telling you this because what happened here in Chiang Mai was not your fault.

  I wish that things could have worked out differently for us.

  The note slipped from his grasp as Mark leaned on the bathroom cabinet, his head spinning.

  Fuck finding it unforgivable! What Simone had done was criminal. No matter how much she tried to dress it up, she hadn’t just betrayed him, she’d undermined an Australian Federal Police operation. If she wanted it to be ‘business, not personal’, then he’d give it to her from both barrels. At the very least, he’d have to bring her in for obstruction of justice, if not goddamn treason.

  With a roar of indignation, Mark yanked at the drawer of the bathroom cabinet and sent it crashing to the floor, its contents spilling onto the tiles. He angrily sifted through them, more in need of painkillers than ever, when he caught sight of the note again. It had fallen face down, revealing a postscript on the reverse side.

  P.S. Simone Whitfield was an alias. I’m sorry, Mark.

  ‘Oh, the fucking cunt!’

  He screwed the piece of paper into a ball, threw it on the floor. There was no way he could go after her now—not without being made to look like a complete arsehole. He kicked the drawer into pieces.

  ‘Shit!’ He said at last and slumped down on the floor. His right hand landed on a strip of sought-after painkillers. He swallowed two of them dry and sat with his head in his hands, waiting for them to kick in.

  Through the cracks in his fingers, he saw her note at his feet and wondered why she’d bothered to leave it at all. She could have just slipped away. It would have been cowardly, but that stuff happened all the time. If he’d woken up and found her gone without an explanation, he would have blamed himself for being too full-on and scaring her off.

  He picked up the piece of paper and smoothed it out on the tiles.

  …what happened here in Chiang Mai was not your fault.

  She’d saved him on that score, too.

  I wish that things could have worked out differently for us.

  And he never even knew her name.

  Ratratarn stood to one side of the lectern and scanned the conference room, estimating the crowd at around forty. Local and national television and print media were well represented and, to his satisfaction, there were also a few foreign correspondents. His gaze wandered over the faces until he saw Jayne Keeney standing towards the back of the room. She’d dressed for the occasion—camera around her neck and notepad in hand—but they both knew her presence had nothing to do with any journalistic aspirations. He nodded to her in such a way the press liaison officer could easily mistake it for his cue.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Officer Chonsawat began, ‘may I have your attention, please. Police Lieutenant Colonel Ratratarn Rattakul, commanding officer in charge of last night’s operation, will now read a statement. He will then take questions, but please keep them brief as we have limited time.’

  He bowed and stepped aside. Ratratarn placed his notes on the stand and cleared his throat.

  ‘As you are aware, the Chiang Mai Police City Bureau raided an establishment in Loh Kroh late last night, known as the Kitten Club, managed by an Australian, Douglas Kelly.’

  He paused to allow Chonsawat to read the same statement in English.

  ‘The raid was a turning point in an operation carefully planned by Chiang Mai police over several months, which included intensive surve
illance and undercover activities. We believed Khun Doug Kelly organised and profited from the sale of children for sexual purposes, and the raid was timed to coincide with the introduction of strict new anti-prostitution laws.’

  Ratratarn paused again, savouring the moment.

  ‘Code-named Operation Jasmine, the raid sends out the strongest message to those who seek to engage in and profit from the heinous crime of child sexual exploitation. Such crimes will not be tolerated!’

  He pounded his fist on the lectern.

  ‘Neither the police nor the citizenry of Chiang Mai will rest until those who exploit young children are made to pay for their crimes—until the world understands such criminal elements are not welcome in Chiang Mai.’

  A murmur of what he took to be admiration went through the crowd.

  ‘The raid was highly successful,’ he continued. ‘Eight children were rescued and thirty-six farang offenders were arrested and charged under the new laws. Trial dates are set for later this month.’

  While he paused for the translation, he adopted a grave expression.

  ‘Shortly after police entered the Kitten Club, Khun Doug—the primary target of the operation—produced a weapon and began firing, killing one officer. When police returned fire, Khun Doug was himself killed. The Chiang Mai police deeply regret his death. Nevertheless, this misfortune will not stand in the way of ongoing police efforts to stamp out child prostitution in Chiang Mai and to bring those responsible—farang or Thai—to justice.’

  He indicated to Chonsawat that he was ready to take questions. First to jockey into position was a young reporter from Channel 4.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, wielding her microphone like a dagger, ‘Can you comment on rumours that the farang brothel owner killed in the raid was also going to be charged for the murder of Khun Sanga Siamprakorn?’

  Ratratarn inclined his head as if to check his notes, hiding a smile. It was all going to plan, the ‘rumours’ having been leaked by his own office earlier that morning.

  ‘I can confirm,’ he said, ‘that our findings into last weekend’s murder have been revised on the basis of new evidence, which suggests the late Khun Doug organised the assassination of Khun Sanga to protect his child sex racket.’

  To Ratratarn’s gratification, the disclosure sent the journalists into a near-frenzy. The foreigners strained to hear the English translation as the Thais surged forward, clamouring for attention. Several punched frantically at mobile phones, others scribbled hasty notes, while two men from rival newspapers engaged in a heated argument.

  Holding up his hand in a call for order, Ratratarn gestured for another question from the floor, this time from a farang.

  ‘Frank Reeves,’ the man said, ‘Reuters. Sir, what does this development mean for the Canadian, Didier de Montpasse, previously held responsible for the crime?’

  Ratratarn indicated to the interpreter that he would answer the question himself.

  ‘All of you present today will receive a copy of a statement exonerating Khun Didier of any involvement in Khun Sanga’s death,’ he said. ‘The police will also be issuing a formal apology through the Canadian Embassy for the unfortunate incident leading to Khun Didier’s accidental demise.’ Sensing farang journalists were poised to pursue the matter, he added, ‘For the record, Khun Didier’s body will be released later this afternoon. Any further inquiries on this should be taken up with the press liaison officer or the Canadian mission in Bangkok. Next!’

  ‘Sir, can you tell us about the young girls rescued in last night’s raid?’

  This question from Khun Nalinee, Chiang Mai correspondent for the Nation.

  ‘The eight girls, aged between nine and sixteen years, have been placed in the care of a local welfare organisation,’ he said, ‘with a view to returning them as soon as possible to their families.’

  ‘Are they local girls?’ she said.

  ‘To my knowledge, one or two are Burmese, the others are from the northeast.’

  ‘Isn’t it likely the girls were sold by their families into prostitution and therefore risk ending up in the same situation again?’

  ‘As we have limited time, Khun Nalinee,’ Ratratarn said, ‘it’s only fair to allow an opportunity for others to ask questions, don’t you think?’

  He ignored her withering look and turned to a reporter from the local television station. ‘Yes, Khun Wipawee.’

  ‘Do any of the rescued children have AIDS?’ she said breathlessly.

  Ratratarn smiled indulgently, as if moved by her concern for the girls’ welfare. ‘One can only hope not, but rest assured, the girls will be individually assessed and their needs met by the appropriate agencies on a case by case basis.’

  He gestured at a journalist from the Chiang Mai Daily.

  ‘Sir,’ the man said, ‘have police released the name of the officer killed in last night’s raid?’

  Ratratarn nodded solemnly. ‘He was Police Sergeant Pornsak Boonyavivat.’

  The hush that followed his reply was broken by a voice at the back of the room.

  ‘Françoise de Calan,’ the woman said in a European accent, ‘Agence France Presse. Sir, can you comment on whether there is any relationship between Operation Jasmine and the death of another one of your officers, Komet Plungkham, two nights ago?’

  A ripple of interest went through the crowd, heads turning to see who had asked such an odd question.

  Ratratarn acknowledged Jayne Keeney with a nod. ‘Yes, Khun…Françoise, was it?’ He made no effort to hide the sarcasm, and cleared his throat again. ‘The body of Officer Komet Plungkham was found in a rubbish skip at the Ton Payorm Market two days ago—allegedly discovered by the late Sergeant Pornsak. I say allegedly,’ he said, ‘because recent evidence suggests Officer Komet was the victim of foul play.’

  There was more commotion as a new round of mobile phone calls were made.

  ‘It would appear Sergeant Pornsak was extorting protection money from Khun Doug,’ Ratratarn said. ‘Our surveillance team has photographic evidence of him entering Kelly’s club as recently as Thursday night. On the basis of this and other findings, we believe that Officer Komet was on the verge of exposing Pornsak’s nefarious activities when he was killed.’

  Ever the zealot, Khun Nalinee’s voice rang out in the crowd.

  ‘What’s to say other officers weren’t involved in the protection racket as well as Sergeant Pornsak?’

  It was a question Ratratarn had anticipated. ‘In the wake of last night’s victory against the forces of corruption—which, I reiterate, saw thirty-six foreigners arrested and eight children rescued from sexual slavery—it is my sincere hope that the Chiang Mai police will finally receive due recognition, both in Thailand and abroad, for their efforts to eradicate child prostitution in this country.

  ‘Furthermore, to let the reputation of the entire constabulary be tarnished by the actions of one bad apple is an insult to the memory of brave men such as Officer Komet.’

  That ought to shut her up, he thought.

  ‘On that basis then, Sir, may we take it the Chiang Mai police will provide for Officer Komet’s widow and their unborn child?’

  Ratratarn scowled as Jayne Keeney once again pushed him to make a public declaration on a point in their agreement.

  ‘Of course!’ he snapped. ‘That goes without saying. I have time for one more question.’

  He nominated a benign-looking woman before him.

  ‘Poona Sivaraksa,’ she said, ‘Thai Rath. Sir, you said earlier that Khun Doug ordered the assassination of Khun Sanga. Can you explain, then, the reason for the mutilation of Khun Sanga’s body?’

  ‘It would appear Khun Doug, through his hired thug, wanted to make the death look like a crime of passion, hence, the castration and the triangular shapes carved into the face. We believe the latter feature was designed to draw attention to Khun Didier, a known farang homosexual.’

  He gathered his notes together. ‘Thank you. That is all.’

&nb
sp; Ratratarn signalled for Chonsawat to take his place. As he left the dais, he knew the trial of the farangs would prolong interest in the case for a while, but that it would soon die down and he could go back to business as usual.

  At the end of the day that was all Ratratarn wanted.

  Jayne watched the lieutenant colonel work the crowd like an evangelical preacher soliciting donations. She noted how he modulated his voice, speaking with calm detachment at first, building to righteous indignation, then sober as he spoke of the deaths of Kelly and Pornsak. His timing was perfect. He had the audience in the palm of his hand and there was no mistaking the pleasure he derived from it.

  She had to press him to go public about Komet. But once that was done, she saw no reason to stay. Ratratarn had turned every detail to his advantage, even citing her photo of Pornsak as evidence of the sergeant’s nefarious activities. He’d probably already labelled it as a police exhibit and filed it under ‘Operation Jasmine’ in his office.

  She made her way outside in search of a taxi to meet Max’s flight from Bangkok. The mid-morning light was clear and bright. With the exception of a few puddles in the deeper potholes, there was little evidence of the deluge of the night before. The streets that had been hastily deserted now thronged with people going about their normal business.

  Jayne thought of Didier and Nou, of Komet and Mark, of all that had happened in the past week. And she wondered if she might do the same as Ratratarn and get on with her life.

  Max and Jayne had arrived at the morgue on the Saturday afternoon at the same time as Nou’s family. Though described in the press as a local boy, Nou was from Ayuthaya and his father, brother and a female relative had come to Chiang Mai to claim his remains. While they waited for the paperwork to be completed, Jayne chatted with the woman. Max shifted his weight from one foot to the other until a pause in their conversation gave him the opportunity to take Jayne aside.

  ‘Do you think we should ask about holding joint funeral rites for Didier and Sanga here in Chiang Mai?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Jayne whispered back.