A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  “Kar Savuth – I’m the pathologist.”

  “Well – get on with it then…”

  Savuth turned to the body and became quickly professional.

  “I’ll wait outside,” said Singh hurriedly, as the doctor pulled out a thermometer. He had no desire to watch him insert it into the dead man’s rectum to establish the temperature of the corpse. Singh knew full well it was imperative in determining time of death to know how cold the body was. A good pathologist would be able to estimate, based on the temperature of the surrounding area, how much time had elapsed since the killing. But he was content to read about it in the autopsy report. Menhay nodded a curt farewell. Singh knew he was wondering how Singapore’s top cop could be so squeamish. The Sikh detective wondered at it himself. He was notorious for his cast-iron stomach and had been known to go straight from an autopsy to a curry lunch to the dismay of his less-hardened colleagues. But there was something much more disturbing about the place of death. If he were a religious man he would have said that he could sense the presence of the victim, his last drawn breath, his soul perhaps still tethered to that location – staying long enough to whisper in a corpulent Sikh detective’s ear that he wanted justice so that he could rest. Out in the open, Singh took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He was getting fanciful in this land of death. What was it the advert on television said? Cambodia, Kingdom of Wonder? That wouldn’t have been his chosen moniker.

  ♦

  Colonel Menhay was angry and it showed in his mottled skin and clenched jaw. He was standing up, both hands splayed on the table in front of him, glaring at the man who sat primly on the edge of a chair across from him. The colonel remembered the policeman from Singapore who had occupied that same chair the previous day. Say what you liked about Singh’s predilection for his biscuits, Menhay preferred him any day of the week to this career paper-pusher who was busy ensuring that a day which had started badly, very badly indeed, was only going to get worse.

  His aggressive posture, which had his underlings cowering with fright, seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the other man.

  Mr Adnan Muhammad from the United Nations said carefully, “I’m sure you understand our concerns.”

  “No,” snapped Menhay. He did, of course. It was understandable that the UN were sceptical about the Cambodian police force. Everyone was – and with good reason. This lack of faith in the institution had even led the international body to bring in foreign bodyguards for the foreign judges. It had been a slap in the face to the police force but difficult to gainsay. Who would want their safety to be in the hands of a police force with such an unsavoury reputation?

  “You’re being unreasonable, Colonel Menhay.” The voice was priggish and a perfect fit for the man. The tone was quiet but penetrating. Adnan Muhammad was not a physically imposing man but Menhay could see all too clearly that he was used to getting his own way.

  The colonel sat down suddenly, the fight going out of him. Life had taught him to pick his battles, to retreat from the fray when there was no hope of victory. He said quietly, “A man was killed today here at the tribunal. I’m supposed to be in charge of security at the ECCC.” He ignored the faint sneer on Adnan’s face. He knew he had failed but he didn’t need to read it in the other man’s expression. He had seen the evidence of his failure lying in a small room with a knife buried in its chest. He continued doggedly, “I want to head the investigation. I know this country, this town, these people.”

  Adnan Muhammad was not mincing words. “The reputation of the war crimes tribunal hangs in the balance. We need a reputable person with international prestige to manage the investigation.” He added thoughtfully, “Perhaps someone from our peacekeeping unit.”

  “No one you bring in will have the background to investigate a murder in Cambodia,” barked Menhay. “Besides, where are you going to find some top policeman at short notice? If you wait too long, the trail will go cold.”

  The UN chef de mission to the ECCC said coolly, “We are determined to seek this murderer, of course.”

  Menhay looked at him sharply. Their eyes met and he read the truth in the muddy brown irises. It was obvious that this man was ‘speaking out of the side of his mouth’. He didn’t give a damn about Cheah Huon or finding his killer. He was just panicked that his precious war crimes tribunal was going to be tainted by association. The UN needed a quick solution that looked credible. That was why they couldn’t leave it to the Cambodians. Any result, any arrest, would be suspect. They weren’t looking for a competent policeman. They were looking for window dressing.

  Adnan continued, “It was probably some madman anyway – the trials have brought back a lot of memories. Maybe someone snapped.” He uttered the word ‘snapped’ with relish.

  It had been the colonel’s own theory until he heard it from the mouth of this bureaucrat. He wasn’t so sure any more. “That’s just ridiculous. Why would someone ‘snap’ and kill Huon of all people?”

  The UN man shrugged delicately – presumably to indicate that he was not in a position to understand the thought processes of the criminally insane. He reverted to the subject, the only subject which was of interest to him. “We need to get someone in – we will issue a press release that you are jointly in charge. I have already obtained the agreement of your government for this procedure as long as there is no loss of face for Cambodia.”

  Loss of face. A man lay dead no more than a hundred yards away. The country had indulged in a comprehensive national bloodletting less than thirty years ago. And yet all anyone seemed to care about was losing face. What about losing life, honour, integrity? Menhay looked across his desk and spotted the corner of a name card sticking out from under a pile of papers. He extricated Inspector Singh’s card and slid it across the table with a flick of his fingers like an expert caroms player.

  “I think I know just the man you need,” he said.

  Adnan was looking down at the card with interest so he did not see a slow smile spread across Colonel Menhay’s harsh features.

  Seven

  Singh was loitering. Without intent. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He watched a succession of officious-looking individuals – he guessed they were part of the forensics team and police hierarchy – wander in and out of the block. Probably contaminating the evidence, decided Singh, with a petulant pout. Two guards had been posted at the entrance to prevent the ingress of those without a reason to be there. One of them had been eyeing him for a few minutes. Singh knew that a certain type of criminal returned to the scene of a crime to watch the proceedings with a voyeur’s interest. These guards probably thought that he was in the frame for the murder now. One of them would soon come and tell him to ‘move along’ or whatever the Cambodian equivalent was for shooing people away for no other reason than that they looked suspicious. Or perhaps they’d arrest him. That would certainly make Superintendent Chen’s day. He really was behaving most peculiarly. It just felt odd to have a murder occur and not be in the thick of the action. He was isolated, a bit-part actor – perhaps just an unnamed extra – in a movie in which he should be the star. After all, wasn’t he Inspector Singh, famed for the way his broad nose, a few hairs sticking out of the nostrils, could follow the scent of a killer and apprehend him, when all others were stymied?

  He needed to stop believing his own propaganda. The reality was that he was delighted not to be involved in a crime which was probably insoluble in a country where the powers-that-be would make Singapore’s authoritative figures look like teddy bears. That poor bastard, Menhay, already had a serial killer on the loose. Now he had an unrelated – or was it? – murder. The victim would soon be a political football for the competing interests involved in the war crimes tribunal. He, Singh, was well out of it. He should stay out of trouble, enjoy this break from policing and hone his detective instincts in the pursuit of more palatable meals. He might try French food. The French hadn’t spent much time governing their colony if
they were to be judged by results. Perhaps they’d left a culinary legacy. Having decided firmly that he wanted nothing to do with the investigation, Singh continued to loiter in the vicinity of the crime.

  He heard his name called in the same gruff voice as earlier that morning. He glanced up and saw Menhay waving to him with windmilling arms. Singh’s skin prickled uncomfortably with a sense of déjà vu. Then he noticed differences from the earlier summons. This time, Menhay was smiling broadly. And he was not alone. Next to him, wearing a three-piece suit that was devastatingly inappropriate for the steamy weather, stood a slight man with a naturally disdainful expression which he was trying with difficulty, and very little success, to rearrange into a more welcoming visage.

  “What’s going on?” asked Singh, panting slightly. He addressed his question to Menhay and ignored the other man.

  “This is Mr Adnan Muhammad, UN liaison to the war crimes tribunal.” The colonel gestured at the fat man. “And this is Inspector Singh of the Singapore police force whom I was just telling you about,” he explained further.

  Both men shook hands. Adnan’s hands were small and dry, like a woman’s hands, thought Singh dismissively engulfing it with his clammy paw. His grip, however, was firm.

  Menhay led the way to his office, made his way around the big desk and nodded his invitation to the two men to sit down. They did so, one carefully, the other collapsing into the seat as gravity took over.

  Singh repeated his earlier question. “What’s going on?”

  It was Adnan who answered, indicating with the way he drew his chair around to face Singh that he saw himself as the major force in the room. “This murder is a disaster,” he said, the extreme words contradicted by his impassive face.

  “Especially for the victim,” remarked Singh and was rewarded with a glare.

  “We need to get to the bottom of this crime quickly and with credibility to protect the reputation of the ECCC.”

  Singh waited, his impatience signalled by the fingers drumming on his thigh.

  “The Cambodian government and other relevant parties have agreed that we appoint a third party to assist in the investigation in order…” For the first time the other man was at a loss for words. “…in order to ensure that the process meets international standards.”

  The Sikh policeman glanced at his Cambodian counterpart. Menhay’s face was expressionless but his eyes were turbulent. He didn’t like this one bit but had been presented with a fait accompli.

  “I’ve had a look at your resume and made some quick phone calls.”

  Singh stiffened as if bracing for a body blow.

  “You’ll undoubtedly be pleased to know that the Singapore government has agreed that you are now, with the colonel here, in charge of this murder inquiry.”

  ♦

  Adnan left, his machinations complete. The atmosphere in Menhay’s office lightened considerably although there was still a sense of constraint between the two men. The situation reminded the Sikh policeman of breakfasts in the Singh household the morning after a particularly tetchy argument, usually involving his refusal to attend a tedious family wedding or funeral of some distant relative whom he had never heard of until their nuptials or demise. Circumstances on the home front were only capable of improvement through his complete capitulation to the wishes of his spouse. But that was Mrs Singh. This was only a Cambodian copper. Such extreme measures were not called for – not yet anyway.

  Singh eyed the other man. “So what do you think?”

  Menhay shrugged. Singh knew that the colonel understood what he was asking in this oblique manner. How did he feel about having a policeman from Singapore trample all over his turf at the behest of a United Nations bag carrier?

  “What do you want me to say?” Menhay was not going to grant him absolution.

  “If you don’t like the idea, I can refuse the assignment.” As he said the words, Singh knew he would be very disappointed to walk away from this case. His depth of interest in the inquiry surprised him. However, he would not proceed without the agreement of the other man. He owed him that much, out of courtesy for a fellow policeman and a certain respect he had developed for Menhay.

  The square-jawed Cambodian policeman smiled suddenly. “I don’t think you were given a choice.”

  Singh cracked his knuckles together, a fat man ready for a fight. “I can find a way out if need be.”

  “If you refuse to do this – they’ll just give me some other” – he consciously altered his first choice of words which Singh suspected had not been very polite – “person to boss me around. It might as well be you. In fact,” he added, throwing Singh a bone, “I suggested you.”

  The policeman from Singapore was well aware that he was not going to receive a more fulsome welcome than that. He didn’t blame Menhay for his muted reception to the plan. He would have been livid if some starched-up pencil sharpener had pulled the rug from under his feet the way Adnan Muhammad had done to the colonel. He wondered at his own willingness to accept an assignment in such fraught circumstances. What was he thinking? This was a no win situation. He should be running as fast as his short legs would carry him away from the scene of the crime, not licking his lips in anticipation at getting immersed in its complexities.

  Singh realised suddenly that it was his role as a bystander that he had not enjoyed these last few days in Phnom Penh. It was one thing to be between murder inquiries in Singapore with nothing to do except ignore the paperwork on his desk and keep a watchful eye out for his superiors, but it didn’t suit his personality to be a ‘watching brief’, unless it was for a cricket match on television.

  He screwed up his face. There was something about the present situation that seemed familiar to him – violent death in unfamiliar surroundings accompanied by a reluctant local policeman. It came to him. This case reminded him of the Malaysian murder he had been embroiled in some time ago. Singh perked up noticeably. If there were parallels between the two cases, a beautiful woman would soon be accused of Huon’s murder.

  “So – where do we begin?” he asked cheerfully.

  “You tell me,” said Menhay with only a faint thread of sarcasm in his voice. “You’re the expert.”

  This developing mutual understanding was interrupted by a hurried knock on the door to Menhay’s office followed by the entrance of a uniformed policeman. He looked flustered. A tall, thin man was hard on his heels.

  “What is it?” snapped Menhay.

  Singh suppressed a smile. He might be jointly in charge of this investigation but the Cambodian’s sense of authority was undiminished.

  The response from the junior man was in Khmer and sounded apologetic. Singh caught the name François Gaudin which he assumed referred to this panting elderly man with gangly limbs like an angry scarecrow. Whatever was said, it caused Menhay to turn to the Frenchman and ask brusquely, “What do you want? We’re quite busy this morning.”

  He spoke in English. It was an interesting choice given that Menhay was of a generation that still spoke French. Probably it was an instinctive reaction to the presence of Singh. It was an irony that the three men, a Khmer, a Frenchman and a Sikh, should choose English as their lingua franca.

  “Is it true what I hear? That there is a dead man?”

  Singh straightened up in his chair and exchanged a glance with the other policeman. Did this fellow know too much? More likely, the inevitable leaks had sprung and word of Huon’s untimely death was spreading like a cold virus. The newspapers would soon be circling like vultures over a carcass. There was a large crew of foreign journalists encamped at the ECCC who would be quick to see the potential in the murder for a career-making byline.

  “Who is it? What happened? You must tell me.”

  The Frenchman looked familiar. Singh stared at him fixedly, trying to work out the connection.

  “There is an investigation ongoing, sir. Any information about it is confidential. I cannot tell you anything.”

  There was a sudd
en sharp sound that punctuated Menhay’s brusque explanation like an exclamation mark. It was Singh slapping his hand triumphantly on the desk. They both turned to him. Menhay’s expression was mildly inquiring. The Frenchman was staring at him wildly, as if struggling to understand the role of a turbaned Sikh man in the greater scheme of things.

  “You were at the trial of Samrin,” said Singh. “I noticed you during the testimony of Ta Ieng.”

  Gaudin spat at the ground but his lips were dry and chapped and the saliva merely left a thin streak on his unshaven chin. “You speak of that animal by name?”

  Singh was taken aback by the aggressive response. He played back the scene in his mind’s eye – this man with tears streaming down his cheeks, Ta Ieng glaring at the gallery as if daring anyone to question his choices, his decision to follow orders to save his own skin. Even since yesterday, the condition of Gaudin had deteriorated. His skin had an unhealthy pallor that spoke of a lack of sleep and there were new bruises as well. His shirt was stained with food hurriedly eaten. The stubble on his jaw was the same dirty grey as an elephant’s hide, the skin underneath creased with age and worry.

  Gaudin returned to the subject closest to his heart. “I heard a witness is dead. Is it true? You have to tell me!” The voice had reached the pitch of a scream. Echoes bounced off the whitewashed walls and caused the Sikh inspector to wince.

  François Gaudin must have read the answer to his question in Menhay’s eyes. His shoulders curved as if only the tension within his body had held him upright. His eyes were bright with tears but they remained nestled along his bottom lids like pearls in an oyster. Singh had seen his expression before on other men and a few women, a gradual dawning of knowledge that the death of an enemy was not a panacea to the feelings of hatred that had gone before. Sometimes the sense of emptiness that the death of an adversary caused was similar and more intense than from the loss of a loved one.