Don't Eat Me

by Colin Cotterill

  “So what are you worried about?” Phosy asked.

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “He told you to tell the truth, right?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “There’s no but.”

  “Well, comrade, me getting kicked out of the Zil wasn’t the only odd thing to happen that night. But I don’t think the judge knew about it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I dropped him off at the Soviet residence and me and the other drivers were in the empty lot opposite having a smoke and a chat. And one of the boys tells me one of my front tires is soft. We all have foot pumps in the trunk. It was hard work but I didn’t have much else to do. So, I went to get the pump. But when I took out the key ring, the trunk key wasn’t on it. It’s always there. In fact, it’s hard to get off. I felt in my pocket, looked on the mat under the steering wheel. No sign of it.”

  “Does anyone else have access to the keys?” Phosy asked.

  “No, well, when we put the limos to bed at night we drop off the keys at the office by the lot. The guard there signs the car in and puts the keys on their hooks. But only the drivers and the guard can sign the cars in and out.”

  “And when was the last time you’d used the key to open the trunk?”

  “The previous morning,” said Uthit. “I was at the ministry waiting for the judge and I used the squeegee to wipe the windows.”

  “Could you have dropped it then?”

  “Like I say, the keys were really hard to take off the ring. Nothing else was missing from the bunch. I suppose it’s possible. But that wouldn’t explain how it came back.”

  “It came back?”

  “When I went to see what damage the judge had done to the Zil the next morning, I stopped at the office to get the keys. I was relieved they were there and not at the bottom of the Mekhong. And the limo was in good nick too. I’d forgotten about the key being missing and instinctively I went to the trunk to check everything was there. It was only then that I remembered. The key was back on the bunch.”

  “No way you could have just missed it the previous night?” Phosy asked.

  “There are five keys,” said Uthit. “I can count to five.”

  “So, the judge had returned the limo and five keys at the end of his hell ride?”

  “Not returned exactly,” said the driver. “He parked outside the lot halfway up a grass verge and left the keys in the ignition. He shouted for the attendant to come and get it and he vanished.”

  “He could walk?”

  “At speed by the looks of it.”

  Phosy was taking notes in his book.

  “All right,” he said, “back to the previous day. You met the judge at the ministry in the morning. Where did you take him?”

  “We had to go to the airport to pick up some VIP.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know.”

  The memory came back to Phosy. The chief inspector had gone to the airport to meet the Cambodian on the same day. He remembered seeing the judge arrive at the airport in a Zil. The judge had lowered the window and nodded as Phosy passed.

  “But for that day you were the judge’s personal taxi service?” said Phosy.

  “No, it’s not like that. The Zils are for special occasions. Judge Haeng is one of a dozen high-rankers I take around. We’re usually reserved for state functions and, you know, high diplomatic stuff. The prime minister and president have their own limos available all the time but down through the politburo and below they have to book. There are only twenty-four Zils in all. We don’t do milk runs.”

  “So it was unusual that the judge would have you twice in one day?”

  “Yeah, he’d have to book it in advance. He wasn’t that fond of being driven. He preferred his motor scooter. But the justice ministry insists sometimes.”

  “What time were you at the airport?”

  “Nine for the nine a.m. flight from Hanoi. It arrived at eleven-fifteen.”

  “What did you do for those two hours?”

  “Drank coffee in the canteen.”

  “Alone?”

  “I knew people there. We talked.”

  “Did the judge join you?”

  Phosy noticed a brief hesitation before the answer.

  “No.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “No idea,” said Uthit.

  “And where was your car?”

  “In priority parking in front of the terminal.”

  “And the keys?”

  Another hesitation.

  “With me,” said Uthit.

  “Never out of your sight?”

  The hesitation was even longer this time.

  “No.”

  “You sure?” said Phosy.

  “Yes.”

  “All right. And where did you take your VIP?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one you went to the airport to meet.”

  “Oh, he didn’t turn up,” said the driver. “Missed the flight.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The judge.”

  “Weren’t you surprised about that?”

  “Not really. Happens all the time. If anyone ever arrived on the right flight at the right time there’d be nobody there to meet them. Air travel. It’ll never catch on.”

  Chapter Eight

  Loved and Lost

  “Civets?” said Madam Daeng. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of civets hunting in packs.”

  With all their respective duties and hobbies, Dr. Siri’s group of crime fighters had not been able to get together for a while. But that evening they were all there at Madam Daeng’s noodle shop: Chief Inspector Phosy, Nurse Dtui, Siri, Daeng, Civilai, Mr. Geung and his lady friend, Tukta. Ugly the dog kept watch outside.

  The imbibement of choice for all those apart from the Down syndrome representatives was vodka, duty free from their trip to Moscow. Siri and Civilai had become rather fond of the Stolichnaya and this was their last bottle. But they reluctantly agreed there were worse things in life than running out of vodka: being eaten by civets, for one.

  “The keeper was confident,” said Dtui, “and he gave me a little demonstration of his nasal capabilities that left me in no doubt.”

  “Then our mystery woman was eaten by large rodent-like mammals,” said Civilai. “Any idea where the beasts pounced?”

  “I’m guessing it was inside,” said Dtui.

  “Why’s that?” Siri asked.

  “Just a hunch,” said Dtui. “If she was attacked in the open air I’m assuming larger animals would have soon carried away the bones to gnaw on. And I don’t think the skeleton was exposed to sunlight. There was no bleaching at all. The keeper had never heard of civets attacking a person. They usually live on insects and smaller mammals. So, something tells me the animals and the girl were trapped together.”

  “The civets were st-st-starving,” said Mr. Geung.

  “Is that a guess or Mr. Geung’s psychic intuition?” asked Dtui.

  “I know,” said Geung.

  “But even so she could have fought them off,” said Civilai. “They’re just little pussy cats.”

  “Assuming she was conscious,” said Siri.

  “I wonder if she was being tortured,” said Madam Daeng. “I’ve seen men thrown into animal pits at the end of a rope. Their only chance to be pulled back to safety is to give up their secrets.”

  “All right, let me sum this up,” said Phosy. “You have a young woman thrown into a room full of starving animals to make her confess to something. Perhaps she’s already been beaten so she doesn’t have the strength to fight them off. She dies. Why then do her torturers not dispose of the body discreetly?”

  “And what’s Judge Haeng’s role in all this?” asked Siri. “The evidence
is mounting against him. He had the transport. He had a locked trunk. He was alone and he had plenty of time. But why would he go to so much trouble to make sure the body could be found? Even with all the planning, he took a serious risk of being caught.”

  “I’m rather impressed,” said Civilai. “I wouldn’t have credited the man with the type of mind to come up with such subterfuge.”

  “But we have no evidence that he was involved at all,” said Phosy.

  “We have to account for those two missing hours at the airport waiting for his imaginary VIP,” said Daeng. “That was the only time he could have put the body in the trunk.”

  “But what was the skeleton doing at the airport in the first place?” said Dtui.

  “That’s my homework for tomorrow,” said Phosy.

  “You do know you’re the chief inspector of police?” said Siri.

  “It’s written on my door,” said Phosy.

  “Then you have a police department at your disposal,” Siri continued. “You shouldn’t be out there using up shoe rubber interviewing people. Don’t you think it’s time to delegate responsibility?”

  “Siri, I’ve officially been in the job for two months,” said Phosy. “I’ve done some culling, but I haven’t yet got around to firing all the officers I don’t have faith in and if I did it would be a very vacant police department. I have a dozen men I’d trust with my life and a few hundred I think I can rely on. Of the rest, I don’t know who’s loyal to me or who Judge Haeng has planted there to keep an eye on things.”

  “Then it looks like the noodle shop justice league will be back on the streets,” said Civilai. “And now that you have control of the cash register we might even get paid for our services at last.”

  Mr. Geung and Tukta thought that was hilarious.

  “You are irretrievably Civilai,” said Daeng.

  Like the entertainer between acts of a play, a bat swooped in through the door, scooped up a mouthful of moths from the aura of the overhead light and swooped out again.

  “And what news of your film?” Phosy asked.

  “Oh, you know,” said Siri, “it’s not the easiest thing in the world to make a movie with a grenade launcher.”

  “Haven’t I apologized enough for that?” said Phosy. “Smuggling is smuggling, be it a weapon of war or a cabbage. You endangered yourselves and your friends. You’re lucky I didn’t lock you all up.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have any allies at all,” said Civilai.

  “Was it worth the danger?” Phosy asked.

  “It will be,” said Siri.

  “You haven’t started yet?” said Dtui.

  “We are scouting out locations,” said Siri. “We are fine-tuning the best light and sound settings for our camera.

  “But they can’t turn it on,” said Daeng.

  Only Siri and Civilai failed to see the funny side of that comment. When the laughter died down Siri produced a wad of papers from his shoulder bag.

  “We have a script,” he said. “We are two thirds of the way there.”

  “We’re hanging on to our script for dear life,” said Civilai. “The Ministry of Cultures and Pond Life would have us turn it into a propaganda newsreel.”

  “Plus, we’re a bit short of actors,” said Siri.

  “We don’t have any,” said Civilai.

  There was another trickle of laughter.

  “Why don’t you go to the women’s union?” asked Dtui.

  “Do they know how to use cameras?” Civilai asked.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” she replied, “but I’m thinking more of their network. You’re looking for performers. You know from experience how fast the ladies can spread information. I’m sure you’d have a queue of budding film stars at your door.”

  “It’s worth a try,” said Civilai.

  “And if anyone can get the Ministry of Culture off our backs it’s the union,” said Daeng. “They could take it on as their own project.”

  “But they’d want all the main roles rewritten for women,” said Civilai.

  “And what’s wrong with that?” said Dtui, Tukta and Daeng simultaneously.

  Mr. Geung didn’t turn up for the morning shift at Madam Daeng’s noodle shop and Tukta wasn’t there to wait tables. It was the first day’s work they’d missed in all the time anyone had known them. Given the couple’s diligence and reliability, their absence could only have meant that something terrible had happened. Mr. Geung occupied the room behind the shop. His bed hadn’t been slept in. Tukta sometimes joined him there overnight when they would listen to music and “dance.” But Siri jumped on his bicycle and headed on over to Tukta’s aunt’s shop house, where Mr. Geung’s girlfriend kept her belongings. The old woman hadn’t seen her niece since early the previous morning.

  Siri hurried back to the noodle shop, where he found the customers in the same heightened state of anxiety as Daeng and himself. Madam Daeng was working. There wasn’t a chance she’d abandon her shop. Some customers had volunteered to wait tables and wash dishes in the absence of Geung and Tukta. Daeng ladled her noodles into bowls with no need to watch what she was doing. Nothing was spilled. At the same time, she was handing out instructions. She was the general.

  “Mu,” she said, “can you go via the new museum along Samsenthai? The prime minister’s old place. Swing by the stadium. Ask around.”

  Mu, one of Daeng’s most regular customers, finished his noodles and was off without a word. Siri stood back to let him pass. He knew better than to interrupt his wife when she was abuzz. She continued to dollop noodles, add ingredients to the broth and dice vegetables, but it was all through instinct. Her mind was dicing the city into grids. By the end of breakfast, she’d have someone in every square.

  “Foo,” she said.

  The old soldier stood and saluted. “Yes, comrade?” he said.

  “Can you take Tai Ngyai Market? Geung likes to get his river mussels there.”

  “Yes, comrade,” said Foo, and he took off to his bicycle. There were no limos that morning. Most of Daeng’s troops were on foot or on bikes. But nobody objected to being given these tasks. Daeng noticed her husband at the shop front.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “She hasn’t seen them,” said Siri.

  “Damn.”

  “Are the hospitals covered?” he asked.

  “May and Mai went without their breakfasts,” said Daeng. “They’re over at Mahosot now. They’re good nurses. Experienced. If anything bad happened overnight they’ll take care of it.”

  “And the Soviet hospital?” asked Siri.

  “I can take that,” said a young man in a white shirt buttoned to the top. He was well-groomed and confident. “I have a motorcycle.”

  “You a doctor there, son?” Siri asked.

  “Yes, comrade,” said the man.

  “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “I’m just back from East Germany. A friend recommended this place. It’s my first time. Won’t be my last. This is the old Laos I missed.”

  He stood to leave but something behind Siri caught his eye. The other customers followed his gaze. Siri turned to see Crazy Rajhid standing in the road, buck naked and semi-erect. Around his neck he wore the seat of a Western-style toilet, probably washed up from the Thai side of the river. The Indian was as iconic to Vientiane as Nelson’s column was to London but perhaps less photographed. He was a young man in fine shape until you reached his mind. In the past five years, only three people had heard him speak. Siri was one of them.

  “We can’t find Mr. Geung and Tukta,” said Siri.

  Rajhid looked around the busy morning restaurant pointing at his penis, as if anyone had missed it.

  “Jogendranath,” said Siri, using the Indian’s given name.

  Rajhid’s chest heaved and he gagged as he tr
ied to free something from his throat. Siri was about to perform the Heimlich maneuver but it wasn’t a chicken bone stuck in Rajhid’s wind pipe. It was a sentence. He walked to Siri, hugged him, and whispered in his ear.

  “I know where they went,” he said, and suddenly he was Lassie. He ran a few meters along the road and stopped. He wagged his bottom and cocked his head. The noodle shop customers had come to the street to see what was happening. Even Daeng abandoned her post at the noodle trough.

  “I think he wants us to follow him,” said Siri. “He knows where Geung went.”

  “How do you know?” asked Daeng.

  “He told me.”

  Siri climbed on his bicycle.

  “How reliable is the word of a crazy man?” said an elderly customer with the adventurous spirit of a filing clerk.

  “He’s never let us down before,” said Daeng, “but we shouldn’t put all our fish balls in one strainer.”

  So, Madam Daeng returned to direct her noodle troops and Siri, with Ugly at his side, went off in pursuit of Rajhid. The Indian would run thirty meters, stop, wag, and sniff the ground. There had been many moments such as this in Siri’s long, peculiar relationship with Rajhid. There were times when Siri believed it was all an act, that the man had scripted these scenes just to give the appearance of being a madman. He was sure the day would come when the performances came to an end. Rajhid would take a bow, be lauded for his interpretation of insanity and they’d all go for cocktails. But that day never came. The show never ended.

  They’d been following him for thirty minutes. They’d left the river and were proceeding along Luang Prabang Road. Every rainy season left the street potholed. They’d fill the holes with gravel and call it road works then be surprised when the holes came back the following year. It was the only road to the airport, a great welcome to visitors. The fledgling Ministry of Tourism announced 1980 would be Visit Laos Year but they didn’t do anything to make it happen. So, nobody came.

  Rajhid ran remarkably quickly for a barefooted man. Once he’d left his comfort zone of the river bank more people shouted at him, old ladies chased him with brooms, dogs snapped at his ankles. But he ignored all this and soon they were at the turn off to Wattay Airport. Rajhid refused to enter. Siri and Ugly caught up with him.