A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  Glancing at him and then the statue, she burst into sudden loud laughter that drew surprised glances from an old woman selling canned drinks and a small boy with a mop, the only other people there.

  “What’s so funny?” demanded Singh.

  “You – you look like that statue!”

  Singh scowled but turned to peruse the artefact again. The elephant god had a long trunk which nestled comfortably on a pot belly of enormous proportions. He couldn’t help smiling, there was certainly a resemblance. “Maybe he likes Angkor beer too,” remarked Singh and provoked another outbreak of laughter.

  The inspector from Singapore decided he’d had enough of being the butt of the joke and asked grouchily, “Where do we find out about Huon?”

  Immediately the Cambodian woman was all business. “I saw booksellers at the entrance,” she announced and led the way back.

  There were indeed a couple of men, both in wheelchairs, each with a leg amputated at the knee and boxes of books on their laps.

  “Ask them if they knew Huon,” whispered Singh.

  Chhean glared at him. “What do you think I was going to do?”

  She wandered over to the men, Singh a plump shadow in her wake, and commenced her inquiries. There was a lot of excited hand waving in response and Singh was on tenterhooks waiting for feedback.

  “Well?” he demanded in a lull in the conversation.

  “Oh – they say that you look like the Ganesha statue as well!”

  Singh’s eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose.

  Chhean smiled and added, “They knew Huon. He kept to himself and didn’t like to talk about the past.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He sold more books than the rest because of the marks on his face – he got more sympathy from tourists. Oh – and he didn’t have any enemies.”

  Singh considered kicking a large phallic stone that was apparently of historical interest as it stood rigid in the museum’s gardens. “They must know something more than that! I just walked here from the Cambodiana, for God’s sake.” He thought hard for a while, desperate for some sort of opening. At last, he said, “Ask them if there is anything at all about Huon that was unusual, anything at all. I don’t care if it was about his toilet habits. I want to know the man.”

  She repeated the question and he wondered if she had censored the lavatory angle. Her scepticism was apparent in her voice despite the curious language that made everyone speaking it sound as if they had a strong lisp.

  There was silence accompanied by much shrugging and hand wringing. Finally, one of the amputees muttered something and Chhean’s face brightened noticeably.

  “A big car – Mercedes – stopped here a few days ago. The windows were dark so he could not see inside. The passenger in the back wound down the window and called Huon…”

  “By name?” interjected Singh harshly.

  Chhean relayed the question and nodded at the answer. “Yes, by name. Huon went over. They talked through the window.” She listened and then continued, “Huon was angry at first, but then excited.”

  Singh noted that the other wheelchair-bound man had taken up the tale. Whatever had happened, and regardless of whether it was important, these men were corroborating each other’s story.

  There was a pause and Singh asked, “Is that all?”

  “It is very strange – Huon gave the man his whole box of books and postcards. He told the others that he had sold everything.”

  One of the men gestured at Singh and pointed at the cardboard box on his truncated lap, formerly a condensed milk tin carton, now a repository of stories. Singh knew the time had come to cough up for their cooperation. He selected two books each, more tales of survivor horror, and nodded his thanks – he really needed to ask Chhean how to at least say ‘thank you’ in Khmer.

  One of the amputees gestured at Singh and said something to Chhean. The policeman fervently hoped it was not another joke at his expense. Chhean however was sombre. “This man’s name is Som. He says you should find the killer. Huon did not deserve to die like that.”

  The other wheelchair-bound man leaned forward and patted his companion on the arm. It was a gesture that Singh found oddly touching from this infirm pair sitting in the shade of a tree and selling books to foreigners. Drawing from life’s abundance of short straws, they still had the ability to show kindness to each other and seek justice for their friend. Unlike the newspapers and the politicos, these two men – Som and his friend – were genuinely concerned about Huon. He instructed Chhean to say something reassuring, anything really, to the men and hurried out of the gates.

  Their car, with its chain-smoking driver, was waiting outside and Singh slid into the back seat with relief. He let the desultory air conditioning cool and calm him down.

  Chhean leapt in after him, athletic and youthful despite her short stocky frame. “What do you think it means?” she demanded. “A big car, a rich man…it must be important.”

  Singh leaned back against the plastic seat, abandoned his hunt for the long-since-dismantled seat belt and closed his heavy lids against the enthusiasm of amateurs. “Perhaps the rich man was merely a lover of good books?” he suggested.

  He didn’t need to open his eyes or look at his companion to know her reaction – her snort of derision was evidence enough.

  “A generous tycoon who felt sorry for a man with one leg and a scarred face to boot?” suggested Singh.

  “Who knew his name?”

  The inspector pursed his lips into a thoughtful pout. “There, indeed, young lady, is the rub.”

  Ten

  Colonel Menhay was sitting behind his desk, a gloomy expression on his face and the morning newspapers spread out before him. His office was a quiet escape from the hive of activity going on in the adjacent rooms. Singh tactfully ignored the headlines demanding that the head of security for the tribunal be sacked but Menhay was not in the mood for such subtleties.

  “Look at this,” he said, gesturing at the newspapers. “They’re blaming me.”

  “Everyone needs a scapegoat at a time like this,” said Singh comfortingly. “They’ll forget in a week and things will get back to normal.”

  “You forget that we also have unsolved serial killings on our hands. The journalists will soon bring that up too.”

  “Have there been any other developments with that?” asked the Sikh policeman.

  “No,” replied Menhay tiredly. “I’m still looking for connections between the victims – I need someone competent to look into their pasts. My policemen are useless. They spend their time smoking and playing cards. Hopefully the documentation centre will lend me a clerk.”

  “I’ve been researching documents every night,” Chhean said tentatively. “Should I look into this for you at the same time?”

  “Why?” It was Menhay with the quick question. “Why have you been researching documents?” Singh had already queried her nocturnal activities on a previous occasion but Menhay’s attention had been elsewhere at the time.

  “I look for some information about my past,” she answered rather sadly. “I hope to find some trace of my family.”

  Menhay stared at the interpreter, chin resting on his entwined fingers. He reached into a drawer and took out a sheet of paper with a list of names. “Take this,” he said, handing the document to Chhean. “Tell me if you find anything.”

  She nodded, unable to hide her pleasure at this new role and the implied approbation of the colonel.

  Forgetting that he had been the one who brought up the serial killings, Singh suggested sarcastically, “Shall we get back to Huon’s murder then?”

  The Cambodian glanced at his watch, a large dial which superfluously kept time in several cities at once, and said, “Autopsy report should be here in a few minutes…”

  “Anything else turned up?” Singh jerked his head in the direction of the adjacent offices where junior policemen appeared to be very busy if the ringing telephones and active photocopy mach
ines were anything to go by.

  Menhay snorted. “A show to impress Adnan Muhammad. We’re not going to solve this murder chatting to cleaning staff or handing out flyers.”

  Singh reported what they had discovered about Huon and the mysterious wealthy stranger but Menhay merely looked despondent when he was told that, aside from a general description, they didn’t have sufficient information to track down the man or his car.

  “How am I supposed to find this rich man?” he demanded.

  “Perhaps you could send some photo-fit chaps to talk to the booksellers?”

  The colonel grimaced. “This is Cambodia, not CSI Miami. Where would I get such a person?”

  The Singaporean policeman had the grace to look sheepish. He knew very well that the best way to annoy a cop from a small town was to throw modern policing methods – or modern police force budgets – in his face. Not that he, Singh, was a proponent of modern policing methods. Superintendent Chen had once informed him that he was the dinosaur of the Singapore police force and it hadn’t been a compliment about his aggressive T-Rex-like instincts.

  “Maybe you can find the Mercedes,” suggested Chhean.

  Menhay’s expression suggested that he believed that interpreters should be seen and not heard except to translate accurately the words of their superiors and betters and occasionally do a bit of research on the side. Singh was fairly sure he was in agreement with the colonel’s point of view. Chilean’s willingness to lead the questioning of the two amputees instead of merely interpreting for him indicated a streak of insubordination as wide as the Tonle Sap after the rains.

  “You know as well as I do that for a poor country we have a lot of big cars,” growled Menhay in response. “You think I can find one Mercedes? Or should I set up a roadblock on Rue Sihanouk and ask every fat rich man in the back of a Mercedes whether he likes to read books?” He pointed at the newspapers with an angry thumb. “You don’t think I am in enough trouble already?”

  Chhean subsided in the face of this verbal onslaught. Singh, watching her face, didn’t think she was in the least cowed by the Cambodian policeman’s ire. More likely she was keeping her powder dry for more important battles.

  “I did hear from the embassy,” Menhay added, perhaps feeling apologetic for his surliness.

  Singh scratched his beard with a puzzled frown and then remembered the overwrought Frenchman. The colonel had said he was going to call in some favours and find out what he could about François Gaudin. That was quick work if Menhay had already heard back. It seemed that he had leverage at the embassy. Singh knew how these things worked – the colonel had probably picked up some drunken minor functionary with a call girl and now that person owed him a favour.

  “His wife and children are…were, Cambodian. They disappeared in 1975 after they were evicted from the French embassy. You know, just before the foreigners were evacuated to Thailand.”

  “And he only looks for them now?” Chhean’s voice was accusing. Singh guessed she was thinking back to her own abandonment in the aftermath of the war. His interpreter’s wounds seemed as fresh as the day they were inflicted.

  “Gaudin caused a scene at Tuol Sleng a couple of days ago. He started screaming and then fainted in one of the rooms,” added Menhay.

  “Why?” Singh’s brow was furrowed. Something must have triggered the episode although it could also have been an accumulation of horrors.

  “Don’t know. We can find out if you think it’s important? The prison staff might remember – or I can have Gaudin questioned.” He finished on an aggrieved note. “Although I still don’t see what this has to do with Huon’s murder.”

  “There’s no such thing as too much information.” Singh was getting a sense of how his colleagues felt when dealing with him. A harassed policeman with a short fuse – it seemed that he and Menhay had quite a lot in common. It was strange to be the one wearing kid gloves – and out of character as well. On the other hand, he was willing to tread warily, until such time as he and Menhay were no longer going in the same direction. That would be the moment to remind the colonel that the UN, in the form of that toothpick of a man, had left them both in charge.

  Menhay beckoned to a policeman and issued a few curt instructions.

  Singh assumed the young man had been told to look further into François Gaudin’s activities. He had to guess what was said because his interpreter was too busy staring out of the window, chewing on a thumbnail thoughtfully, to do her job.

  He was prevented from indulging in a bit of sarcasm at the expense of Chhean by the entrance, without knocking, of the young pathologist who had attended the crime scene the previous day. The doctor sauntered in with his usual cockiness and flourished a file at them as if it was a magic wand. He was grinning from ear to ear and even his too-long hair was standing on end with excitement.

  “Dr Savuth,” said Menhay in the sort of forced, even tone that suggested he was inches from losing his temper at the insouciance of the youngster.

  “I have the autopsy report,” said the pathologist, somewhat unnecessarily, as he was still brandishing the file.

  “Well, what does it say?”

  “Cause of death – stab wound that penetrated the left aorta. Death would have been almost instantaneous.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” snapped the colonel.

  “Weapon – ordinary wide-blade, single-sided knife.” He added as an afterthought, “Probably stolen from the cafeteria kitchen.”

  “I think you can leave the investigating to us,” said Menhay but Singh’s ears had pricked up. It made sense that the weapon was from the premises. It would not have been easy to sneak one through the metal detectors at the entrance to the compound. Did that suggest that this murder had not been planned in advance? That it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision – grab a knife, stab a man? He wondered again whether the killer had been an expert or merely lucky to have penetrated a vital organ.

  “There is bruising on the jaw.”

  Singh looked up at this. He hadn’t noticed that when he perused the body – the bruises had probably been obscured by the scar tissue. “Post-mortem or pre-mortem?” he asked.

  “You mean did someone smack him on the chin or did he hit his face on the way down after being stabbed?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hard to say really – the bruising was not severe and not very old. Pre-mortem, I would have guessed. But before you get excited, he could have fallen and hit the floor after being stabbed – but before dying.”

  “He might not have died immediately?”

  “He wouldn’t have lasted more than a couple of minutes with that wound…”

  The fat man fell silent, considering what he’d been told.

  Dr Kar Savuth was still beaming like a child on Christmas Eve.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?” Singh asked abruptly. “What haven’t you told us? Spit it out, man.”

  “Fingerprints!” announced the doctor with the air of a medical man who had just discovered a cure for cancer.

  “Fingerprints? On the murder weapon?” Singh’s tone combined hope with doubt. Was it really going to be this simple? Problem solved, case closed?

  “Yes.”

  “Well, go on!” Menhay was standing up now, reaching for the autopsy report. The pathologist skipped back, unwilling to relinquish his prize until he had milked the moment further – he was the man of the hour and he knew it.

  “A lot of smudges – two sets of clear prints,” he said importantly, miming a more serious expression.

  “Identification?” demanded Singh.

  “Unfortunately, Cambodia does not have a comprehensive data base of fingerprints,” explained Savuth in response.

  “So you mean that we have to find the killer before you can do a comparison?” Singh acknowledged that this would be good evidence at any trial. Juries – did they have juries in Cambodia? – loved fingerprint evidence. It was easy, it reminded them of stuff t
hey had seen on the telly and, fortunately for the appeals courts, it was often decisive. It took a cunning killer indeed to plausibly explain away fingerprints on a murder weapon.

  “One set of prints belongs to the deceased.” Savuth grabbed a chair, twirled it round and sat down with his arms resting on the back.

  Singh could see the lines creasing his forehead mirrored on that of Colonel Menhay.

  “The deceased? Huon?”

  “How could that have happened?” asked Menhay. “Was it suicide?”

  “I thought I ‘could leave the investigating’ to you?” replied Savuth.

  For possibly the first time in his life, Singh missed Dr Maniam, the grumpy old pathologist at the Singapore General Hospital who was wont to make personal remarks about Singh’s health based on the organ condition of his autopsy subjects.

  Chhean interrupted. “Shall we concentrate on working together for a moment?”

  All the men except Singh looked sheepish.

  “Not suicide,” said Singh dismissively.

  Menhay nodded. “Possible hypothesis – Huon had the knife before the killer grabbed it and killed him with it?”

  The Sikh inspector’s face wrinkled like an old bed sheet. He tried to picture the scene in his mind. It was possible that Huon had been expecting trouble, armed himself and then discovered that he had bitten off more than he could chew. But surely there would have been some defensive markings on the dead man’s hands in the circumstances?

  Like an echo to his thoughts, Savuth said, “There was no evidence of a struggle. Nothing under the nails. No scratches.”

  When he was concentrating on the issue at hand rather than playing up his own importance, Kar Savuth had a competent air which was persuasive. It persuaded Singh anyway. Although, truth be told, he was always easily convinced by explanations that matched his own initial thinking. It was a habit which occasionally amounted to a weakness if he did not test a hypothesis sufficiently rigorously. That was why he needed sceptical sidekicks. He glanced at his sturdy young interpreter.

  Chhean duly obliged. “Even a one-legged man could put up some defence if he was attacked with his own knife!”