Dr Siri Paiboun: Love Songs from a Shallow Grave (2010)

by Colin Cotterill

  “Which begs the question,” Siri said, “what were Dew and her husband doing together in the first place?”

  “My question exactly, Doctor,” Sihot agreed. “They didn’t appear to invest a lot of time and effort in their children’s upbringing. The grandparents got some money every month from the father but that was all.”

  The wooden shutters on either side of the large room were open and a sudden gust passed through taking two of Sihots sheets with it. He was about to run after them then realised what the wind had taken.

  “No problem,” he said. “Old case. I still have Comrade Dew here.”

  “We’re relieved to hear it,” Phosy grumbled.

  “I went to see the clerk who registered the marriage back in 1973 when the couple moved to Vientiane. I discovered that both husband and wife had been in the military at the time of their marriage. They came from Phongsali which is where the original certificate was issued. I have the name of the military witness who co-signed the certificate and I’m attempting to get in touch with him.”

  “Good job, Sihot,” said Siri.

  “Thank you, Comrade.”

  “Any background information on our prowling wolf Vietnamese major?” Siri asked.

  “Getting military information from the Vietnamese is like getting blood from a crab,” Phosy told him. “There are channels. But the wheels are in motion. We’ll have to be patient.”

  “Did anyone ask him at the interview…?”

  “If he was a fencer? Yes. He said no. He said no to most of the questions. But we found out he was in Czechoslovakia for eighteen months of military training. He forgot to mention that as well. We’re chasing that up with the Czech embassy. They owe us a favour.”

  “All right, Phosy,” said Siri, leaning back on his chair. “That just leaves you.”

  “And our real fencer, Jim,” Phosy said. “All I got from the files was that her parents were ‘casual staff’. It’s the catchall phrase for everything from day labourers to hotel bellboys. The records didn’t say where they’d worked. In the old days, everyone not in government service who could write, put ‘casual staff’ on their documents. Her mother was Vietnamese and probably didn’t have any official status here, so I doubt there’s anything on record anywhere. We only know she was Vietnamese because Jim wrote it on her application for the eastern bloc. No permanent address. No personal details about the parents.

  “We do know Jim enrolled aged sixteen as a trainee medic with the American refugee hospital in Nam Tha. She was one of the star pupils by all accounts. When the Yanks fled, our people found Jim running one of the clinics without any supervision. They all called her ‘doctor’ up there. Our own medical officials were so impressed with her skills and her dedication that they overlooked the fact she’d been selected and trained by Americans and made a scholarship available to her in the Soviet Union. They wanted her to qualify as a real doctor. There was an awful shortage. But she refused that and two other scholarship placements. Cited pressure of work. Not ready to leave. But then a scholarship post came up in East Germany and she finally agreed. She spent a year studying German, picked it up without effort, then launched on the first year of pre-med. It was one of those accelerated courses the Europeans put on for third-world countries. They assume we don’t have the brains to attend regular medical schools and that our people don’t get as sick as theirs so we don’t need seven years of study.”

  Phosy looked up from his notes to find both Siri and Sihot smiling at him.

  “What? It’s true. It is. Anyway, Jim sailed through her language classes and the first two semesters of medicine. Top of her class in everything. Then something went wrong. She failed her first year final exams. Not just failed but bombed completely. They let her do a supplementary exam and she failed that as well. Under the terms of her scholarship they had no choice but to send her home.”

  “That’s weird,” said Siri. “And nobody knows what happened?”

  “No.”

  “Anything from her classmates?”

  “There might be, but don’t forget they’re all still over there studying. I’ve written to the Lao student union representative in Berlin. But even with express delivery it could be two or three weeks before we hear back from them. I don’t have an international telephone budget.”

  “Any chance of finding her parents, Inspector?” Sihot asked.

  “I’m on it, Sergeant. But I get the feeling they’re old regime. Just the fact their daughter got work on a US medical mission makes me think they had some American connections.”

  “And that could bring us back to K6,” Siri said. “I think the locations of the killings are important. It can’t be a coincidence that two of the girls were murdered right there under the noses of the Vietnamese and Lao security services. The killing at Sisangvone primary school doesn’t fit in any respect so I think we should put that on the back shelf and focus on K6. I’m wondering whether Jim’s parents might have been on the staff there before seventy-five.”

  “And jumped ship with all the others,” Sihot agreed. “It might explain why Jim didn’t want to go into too much detail about what her parents did. It might have affected her application to study.”

  “I met a fellow who tends the grounds out there,” Siri recalled. “His name’s Miht. He’s one of the overlappers. He’d probably remember a Vietnamese⁄Lao couple with a smart daughter from the American days. In fact, you might want to check him out as a suspect as well. I can’t give you a good reason why. It’s just a feeling I have in my gut that he’s connected in some way. He seemed to be…observing. I know observing’s a Lao hobby but he was making an art out of it.”

  “I’ll look into it, Doctor,” said Sihot.

  “Let’s not forget, whoever killed the two women at K6 had a right to be there,” Phosy added. “We should consider all the staff suspects. With the cabinet members living out there, it isn’t the easiest place to get in to. How many people are we talking about, Sihot?”

  A stony-faced girl in a faded uniform came trotting in dripping water all over the place from her umbrella. She handed Phosy a sheet of paper, giving Sihot time to reshuffle his pack.

  “Including domestic staff,” Sihot read, “labourers, soldiers, security personnel, and all the politicians and their families…just over five hundred, Inspector.”

  “Better odds than having the entire country to search through,” Siri reminded them.

  “And the odds might have improved even more,” Phosy said, reading the sheet.

  “What’s that?” Siri asked.

  “It’s the Electricite du Lao work roster for rewiring the east side of the compound. The names of the workers with security clearance. And whose name do we see right here at the top?”

  “I only know one person who works for Electricite du Lao,” Siri said. “The husband of Dew.”

  “No?” said Sihot. “Comrade Chanti? I don’t believe it. Twice we talked to him and not once did he mention he was working out at K6.”

  “Perhaps we didn’t ask the right questions,” Phosy growled.

  ∗

  Once the meeting was over and the next round of interviews scheduled, Siri asked Phosy if he could walk him to his motorcycle. The rain hadn’t stopped. There were those beginning to believe it never would. It was falling wheezily now, catching its breath before the next major expectoration.

  “What is it, Doctor?” Phosy asked with an almost irritated tone.

  “There doesn’t always need to be something, son,” Siri smiled. “With all the nastiness we’ve been dealing with, we sometimes forget to find a minute or two to pass the time of day, take an interest in each other.”

  Phosy stopped. “What do you want, Siri?”

  “Ah, well. If you insist. Are you having an affair behind Dtui’s back, Phosy?”

  Phosy’s smile was as drab as the day.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “That’s all.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorro
w.”

  Phosy turned and started to walk away.

  “Are you just going to leave me standing here in the rain without an answer?”

  Phosy ran up the wooden steps and into his office, swerving to avoid a jet of water arcing from the broken roof tiles.

  “It certainly would seem so,” Siri answered himself.

  ∗

  “So, what do you think it meant?” Madame Daeng asked later that evening. She and Siri were putting up shelves in the room they were now whimsically calling The Dr Siri Memorial Library. Daeng was the carpenter in the family. Siri just handed her nails when told to. He was impressed at how well her late-afternoon sawing was fitting neatly together.

  “I thought perhaps you’d know,” he replied.

  “I wasn’t there, was I? Nail! I’d need to have been there. Was it an embarrassed smile? A ‘don’t be ridiculous’ smile? An ironic ‘wouldn’t you like to know?’ smile? Nail!”

  “It was just a…you know? A smile.”

  “Then you have to ask him again. And next time, read the smile.”

  “Why doesn’t Dtui ask him herself?”

  “She’s already made her mind up. Nail!”

  “I don’t – ”

  “Siri, concentrate. That was a toothpick.”

  “Sorry. I don’t feel comfortable interfering. They haven’t exactly asked for our help, you know.”

  “Neither did any of the strays and orphans you’re putting up at your house free of charge. Neither did Mr Geung or Crazy Rajid who you’ve probably frightened clear across the river. These are our friends. Nail! They don’t always have to ask for help.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll invite him out for a few drinks, loosen him up, tell him about the myriad extramarital affairs I’m involved in and he’ll feel an instant camaraderie and come out with his story all by himself.”

  “Now you’re thinking. Nail!”

  ∗

  It was mid-morning and Siri was in the morgue office sitting at his desk with a magnifying glass trying to match the fingerprints on Jim’s épée with the very smudged print he’d found on the bottom of the vitamin bottle. All three swords lay parked across his desk. Nurse Dtui was at her own desk studying Russian. She hadn’t entirely given up hope that, one day in the future, she might continue her studies overseas. This épée case – three women given scholarships – had caused her to wonder how her own course in the Soviet Union might have been progressing if only…

  She’d been on her way, tickets booked, woollen hats crocheted, when, ‘wham’, hit head-on by events. A little bit of lust induced by a powerful but foolish crush, a determined sperm, rampant biology, and there she was: with child but without mate. Her sperm donor had felt obliged to do the right thing and she’d said ‘Yes’. Clearly her mistake. Beautiful baby, womanising husband. One out of two wasn’t bad. She was feeling resentment towards the three women who’d studied overseas. It was as if they’d taken her place but not taken full advantage of their good fortune. Wrong and irrational, Dtui, but better to channel your disappointment into three dead people than one live one who, let’s be honest, hadn’t really promised her that much.

  “What are you doing, Dtui?”

  “Trying to understand the instructions on all this equipment the Soviets keep throwing at us. The freezer’s been here since last year and we still don’t know how to turn it down.”

  “Good. That can wait. Come and take a look at this.”

  She walked across to his desk and leaned over the magnifying glass Siri held over the vitamin bottle.

  “In your opinion,” he asked, “is this a thumb-print or a smudged fingerprint?”

  “It looks a little…”

  “Yes?”

  “A little bit like the face of Ho Chi Minh.”

  “Dtui, I’m being serious.”

  “It’s a miracle. Uncle Ho has returned – ”

  She was interrupted by the sound of the door banging against the filing cabinet. Mr Geung walked into the office drenched as a water rat, obviously in a poor mood.

  “What’s wrong, hon?” Dtui asked.

  “Nothing,” he replied, and slumped down at his little desk in the corner. He shook the rain from his head. His perm looked like a crepe.

  “If nothing’s wrong,” Dtui said, “where are the two cups of coffee you went to the canteen to buy?”

  Geung looked at his hands to confirm they weren’t holding a tray.

  “Oh,” he said. He stood, started for the door, then had second thoughts and returned to his seat. He was obviously being pulled in two different directions by the oxen of conscience.

  “Mr Geung, did something happen?” Siri asked.

  “No!”

  “Geung?” Dtui pushed.

  “A…a…a…a woman,” he said, agitated and animated.

  “Yes?”

  “In the can, the can…the canteen. She…she…”

  “She what, hon?”

  “She…she’s feeble-minded like me.”

  “Mr Geung, how many times do we have to tell you? There’s nothing feeble about your mind. You have – ”

  “A condition,” Geung cut in. “Called Down’s Syndrome. And…and…and she does, too.”

  “Really?” said Siri. “I wonder what she’s doing here.”

  “Probably a patient,” Dtui suggested.

  “No, no, no,” said Geung. He was rocking so drastically back and forth in his seat he was making the room feel like an ocean liner in a squall. “She’s…she’s in…in a uniform.”

  “Well, that explains it,” Siri nodded. “She’s come to work here.”

  “I…I…no, no good.”

  “What are you so mad about, Geung?” Dtui asked.

  “It’s my hospital,” he said. He stood, tapped the desktop four times, and headed off out the door.

  Dtui looked at Siri. “He seems upset.”

  “Who’d have thought Down’s Syndrome sufferers could be territorial? You know, it is really condescending of us to think he’d get along with a girl just because she has the same condition.”

  “Dr Pornsawan said she’s got a lovely personality.”

  “Even so…”

  “Doc, we aren’t locking them in a room together. It’s a big hospital. They don’t have to talk. We just arranged a part-time job for a girl, that’s all.”

  “All right, but I don’t want you pushing him.”

  “I wouldn’t dream – ”

  “Who aren’t we pushing?” came a voice.

  They looked up to see Civilai in the doorway fanning himself with several loose sheets of damp paper.

  “Hello, brother,” Siri smiled. “What did you bring me?”

  “Travel documents.”

  “Travel…? Oh, shit. Cambodia. I’d forgotten completely.”

  “It’s all official. We leave on Friday.”

  “This Friday? Oh, look. I’m not sure I can. We’re in the middle of this case, and – ”

  “Afraid you have no choice, old man.” He turned back to shake his umbrella in the vestibule and left it standing open there before walking into the office.

  Civilai put the papers on Siri’s desk. The doctor detected a faint odour of neglect about his friend.

  “What do you mean I have no choice?” Siri asked.

  “Your boss, Judge Haeng, got wind of our little trip. He was delighted. Said a high-profile visit like this would do wonders for your chances for you-know-what. He’s given you four days off.”

  “I don’t want four days off. Not now. Surely, solving this case should take priority.”

  “He did mention that your role in the épée murder investigation was over, that you are merely a coroner, and that it’s all in the hands of the police now.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “We’re just humble servants, Siri. Bite the bullet. We pop over for the May Day reception, tour a couple of farms, eat and drink ourselves silly and we’re back before anyone’s noticed we’ve gon
e. I doubt Phosy will close the case in the interim. It’ll still be there for us to solve when we come back.”

  “I thought you said they only had one flight in and out a fortnight?”

  “Normally, yes. But this is a special occasion. They’ve laid on an extra flight from Peking. We’ll be going with the Chinese delegation.”

  “Really? That should be fun,” said Siri. “You’ll have a chance to tell them what you think of them. When’s the orientation?”

  “Nothing scheduled yet. Why the panic on getting briefed?”

  “I haven’t been out of the country for seven years. I’m interested to know what’s happening out there in the real world.”

  ∗

  Despite my obstinacy, they continue to bring me my fetid water every couple of hours. Somebody wants to keep me alive – barely. The lights burn on. Time’s dragging like a heavy body over rocks. The whole story is crawling along too slowly to be film. In the cinema I would have made my daring escape hours ago. Certainly, for my sanity it helps to see it all as theatre; the screams broadcast from a tape recorder in the wings. The insect bites merely carefully applied stage make-up. A theatrical slap to the face. It’s only acting. Don’t hide your eyes, son.

  The charcoal has helped. I am back in control, if not of the consistency, at least of the timing. I can now wait for the bucket they bring. The boys. The boys with three watches rattling around their wrists like bracelets. The boys not old enough to shave. The clone boys, identical to the one in my dark dream. Playing soldier with live ammunition. A real gun pointed at my forehead. Night after night. That finger, twitching, deciding whether to squeeze the trigger and take this old man out. And some nights he doesn’t. And some nights he does. And on those nights when the gun blasts, I find myself walking through what’s left of my nightmare with nothing above my frayed neck. But, even on those headless nights I can hear the eerily beautiful singing. It’s a dream. Who needs ears? All right. All right. Perhaps I sense the sounds. Would that work? The honey dew voice of a man. The words mean nothing to me but I can tell he’s singing to his lover. And each night I wake in a humid inside-the-house sweat and I tell my wife, “Something bad is going to happen.” And Madame Daeng brushes back my hair and says, “It’s only a dream.”