A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  “Especially since the killer was a woman,” said Savuth.

  There was no sound in the room except for the rasping of the overworked air-conditioning unit.

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?” demanded Menhay.

  “Why in the world would you think it was a woman?” asked Singh in a tired voice. He wondered what far-fetched theory the young fellow had for his assertion. The strength of the blow? The angle of the wound? It would all be nonsense, whatever it was. This was what happened when you let a pathologist who was still wet behind the ears at a dead body. They wouldn’t be satisfied without some insight that was wildly speculative, indeed absurd. It was a pity. He had been on the verge of trusting the boy’s judgment.

  Kar Savuth had placed the file on Menhay’s table. Now he opened it, straightening loose pages as he did so, and took out a sheet of paper, a computer print-out.

  “What’s that?” asked Menhay.

  “You just got lucky,” Savuth said cheerfully. “The ECCC collects fingerprints from all those associated with the tribunal from the accused right down to those providing witness statements.”

  Singh cut to the chase. “Are you trying to say you have a match for the second pair of prints?”

  “Yes, your killer is a woman, aged forty-one, by the name of Sovann Armstrong.”

  ♦

  So it was going to be straightforward after all. Menhay muttered a heartfelt thanks to the Buddha. He glanced at the newspapers on his desk. Singh had been right. The mood would turn quickly when he had made his arrest and word got out to the press. Tomorrow, he, Colonel Menhay of the Cambodian police, would be a hero.

  The square-jawed man smiled at the other members of his team. A short while earlier, he had viewed them with emotions ranging from irritation at the ornery interpreter to downright anger at the uppity pathologist. Now, he was prepared to beam at them and share the credit. He was not a selfish man – he would give thanks where it was due. Kar Savuth had done a fine job. It was a good day at the office when the forensic evidence did a policeman’s job for him. The fat man from Singapore had agreed to share the poisoned chalice – albeit at the behest of the UN – and had been unexpectedly tactful while doing so. He deserved some kudos for that. He must be just as relieved that this matter was going to be resolved quickly with credit enough for each to have a share.

  “I picked up Sovann’s statement from the documentation centre on my way here,” said Savuth. He handed out copies quickly and they all looked down at the paper as if it was a confession to the murder of Huon rather than the story of a time long since past except in the memory of the victim.

  Chhean translated and abridged as she read it out loud. It was a sorry tale of a young girl who had witnessed her father’s death at the hands of a Khmer Rouge cadre. The interpreter’s voice broke as she narrated the midnight march through the paddy fields, the men, including the girl’s father, on their knees, the cadres with shovels, a vicious blow to the head and an eleven-year-old thinking about the spectacles, secreted in the hollow of a bamboo pole, which her father would no longer need.

  Menhay rubbed his eyes. Pol Pot had died in his own time and in his own space while his legacy was a pile of witness statements with stories, different in the detail, but identical in substance, to the one that Chhean had just recited. And these represented just a fraction of the actuality. So many were dead, mute, illiterate, ignorant – but they had suffered as well, were still suffering because memories like these could not be suppressed. Cambodia was a nation that had to reinvent itself from scratch, from ground zero, as Hun Sen and others called it. To some extent, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, they were succeeding. But sometimes the past reached out and tapped one on the shoulder, reminding Cambodians of what had gone before.

  “I wonder why she did it?” wondered Menhay out loud, although it was a largely rhetorical question. A part of him didn’t care about the answer. The copper who needed a quick result to appease the government and the UN and had fingerprints on a murder weapon didn’t care what had driven this Sovann Armstrong to murder. But the man – who had fled into the jungles and arrived in Vietnam half-starved and delirious and then taken part in the invasion of his own country to remove the Khmer Rouge – was interested to know what had led this forty-one-year-old woman to kill. She had seen death as a child and inflicted it as an adult. But why Cheah Huon? After all, he was innocent too.

  “With a story like that,” Savuth said, tapping the statement with a long finger to indicate what he meant, “she might have just snapped under the pressure of her memories.”

  “I can understand that – no one can be entirely sane who has lived through such an event,” said Chhean in a subdued voice. “But why did she kill Huon? He had suffered too. Why didn’t she attack one of the others – like Ta Ieng?”

  Menhay pressed his hands firmly together at chest height, trying to undo the knots in his shoulders. He thought about the serial killer knocking off ex-Khmer Rouge one by one. So many people, in their conversation, implied that they would have sympathy with the murderer of such men.

  “If she had killed Ta Ieng instead of Cheah Huon – it would still be murder and I would still be planning her arrest.” Menhay spoke sharply in response to Chhean’s remark, more sharply than she deserved.

  The air-conditioning unit on the whitewashed wall, struggling to cool the room, began to drip water on the carpet. He watched the stain grow in size – slowly yet inexorably. The dark patch reminded him of blood. The same size and shape as the stain on the front of Huon’s shirt. He felt a shudder run through his squat frame – it was like an omen.

  “Are you confident of getting her?” Savuth turned to the colonel and asked the question in a polite voice.

  Menhay grinned suddenly, exposing his brown stumps for teeth. He nodded at the witness statement that he was clutching in his hand like a lucky charm. “According to this – she is staying at the Raffles Hotel in Phnom Penh.”

  Savuth smiled back with the even white teeth of a modern-era Khmer. “Nothing but the best for our murderers, eh?”

  The pathologist had a point. Very few Cambodians passed through the luxurious Raffles Hotel. It was a place for wealthy tourists and foreign investors – foreign exploiters he preferred to call these businessmen from South East Asia who were happy to come and pay a few cents for all of Cambodia’s natural wealth, aided and abetted by some of his own greedy countrymen. “Armstrong…” he muttered under his breath.

  “So this Sovann person married a foreigner,” said Chhean.

  “One with money,” suggested Savuth.

  Menhay nodded. “That must be the explanation. It says here that she was resettled to the United States from a refugee camp on the Thai border.”

  “American husband – they all have plenty of money,” explained Chhean with the simple certainty of someone who had been brought up to believe that other lands are bountiful, literally flowing with milk and honey.

  “And they know how to make trouble.” Menhay’s tone was worried. Better than anyone, he knew Cambodia. Here, money talked, and only the very rich and the very poor ignored what was spoken. He turned to look at Singh, seeking someone with experience to allay his fears that there were still bumps in the road ahead. He wanted – no, he needed – a smooth ride from this point onwards.

  As he looked at the Sikh man’s pensive expression, he realised with a start that the entire conversation, since Chhean had translated the witness statement, had been conducted in Khmer. The fat man would not have understood a word and yet he sat quietly, his bearded chin resting in the palm of his hand, his elbow supported by the table that separated them.

  “Singh?” questioned Menhay.

  The other two occupants of the room turned to look at the fat Sikh as if remembering for the first time that the usually assertive man had been absent from the discussion. A silence followed Menhay’s attempt to attract his attention.

  At last, Inspector Singh turned to fa
ce the others. He said simply, and with conviction, “I know Sovann Armstrong. I don’t believe she did it.”

  ♦

  Chhean had come along, doing her best not to draw attention to herself so that she would not be ordered away. She followed in Singh’s shadow, obscuring her own solid figure behind the ample form of the angry detective. The policeman from Singapore was irate that no one was prepared to entertain his doubts over the guilt of Sovann Armstrong. When quick questioning by Colonel Menhay, operating on overdrive, had elicited that Singh had met the woman once, a chance encounter over lunch, he had been more than dismissive, he had been angry.

  Chhean couldn’t blame the colonel, although she thought his accusation, that Singh was trying to prolong the investigation in order to seek more personal glory, had been harsh.

  They were on their way to the Raffles Hotel Le Royal, she and Singh in an unmarked car that followed the lead car, the Toyota four-wheel drive of Colonel Menhay. Behind them was a convoy of police cars with sirens blaring and flashing lights.

  “What are they expecting?” Singh demanded of his companion, on seeing their colourful noisy escort. “That she’s going to make a run for it?”

  As all Chhean knew of the woman was that her fingerprints were all over a murder weapon, she was not as sceptical as Singh. What else could she do but run for it? There was not going to be much sympathy in Cambodia for her – she had not just killed a man, she had almost destroyed the ECCC. Chhean hardened her heart against the stranger they were pursuing in such theatrical style. Closure was essential if the trial of Samrin was to get back on track.

  “Where is this hotel anyway?” demanded Singh.

  “In the European quarter – near the French embassy,” she answered in a soothing voice.

  Singh subsided into grumpy silence. She wondered if her tone had indeed calmed the beast. If so, she would keep talking. “Oldest hotel in Phnom Penh,” she explained with the forced cheerfulness of a tourist guide. “Very famous, very expensive, Jackie Kennedy stayed there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, on her way to Angkor. Later Khmer Rouge attacked the building and used it to store rice and fish.”

  Singh slumped back in his seat, chin resting on his chest and hands resting on his belly with the same tenderness Chhean had previously only seen with pregnant women.

  In a few moments, they were pulling into the driveway of the hotel, past well-tended gardens with an abundance of frangipani trees and fan palms. The lead car drew up and Colonel Menhay leapt out. Chhean followed suit and noted that Singh could move quickly for a man of his size. His white sneakers were hard on the heels of the colonel. As they walked into the foyer, light bulbs flashed and she realised that Menhay had notified the press that an arrest was imminent. She stole a sidelong glance at the inspector. He was livid, his face discernibly red even under the dark skin.

  Menhay, surrounded by an armed guard, demanded to know the room number of Sovann Armstrong.

  The receptionist, thoroughly intimidated by the show of strength, said hurriedly, “I can tell you the room number, sir. But you don’t need it. She is sitting over there!” Using his thumb, he pointed at the conservatory to the rear of the lobby where a number of guests were staring at the commotion with wide eyes.

  All except for one woman who had her eyes firmly fixed on a newspaper, although the large Caucasian man across from her was sitting on the edge of his seat.

  “Which one is she?” Menhay asked the question of Singh.

  He reluctantly trained his turban on the woman with the newspaper and Menhay marched up purposefully.

  The large Caucasian man stood up and barred the way.

  “Looking for someone?” he asked, and Chhean heard an underlying tremor that was incongruous in such a big man. Was he so afraid for his wife – she guessed this must be the wealthy American husband – or was there something that he feared for himself?

  “We are looking for Sovann Armstrong,” said the colonel.

  “What?” His ruddy face had grown pale.

  So he had thought that this police invasion had something to do with him. In Cambodia, that could mean anything – underage girls, or boys, drugs, kickbacks. Jeremy Armstrong was in a panic because, unlike the usual circumstances involving a rich barang, consequences seemed about to flow from his wrongdoing.

  “I am Sovann Armstrong.” The woman stood up. Immediately she became the centre of attention, drawing all eyes and cameras. She was thin and elegantly dressed in a rich silk sampot, her hair swept up in a chignon. Chhean felt a stab of envy. No wonder the fat man was convinced that this gorgeous creature was innocent. Her own lack of height and stocky figure was suddenly uppermost in her mind and she chastised herself firmly for thinking about anything so trivial. What sort of idiotic female was she anyway to feel resentment towards someone who was about to be arrested for murder?

  Sovann looked around at the mass of policemen and press with a bemused expression. She did not look afraid, which surprised Chhean. Even the innocent were entitled to look fearful in the face of the AK-47-toting police. Sovann’s gaze fell on Inspector Singh and her face creased in a smile of recognition. Chhean, darting a quick glance at the policeman, noted that he did not return the mild salutation. She was surprised that the inspector from Singapore had ignored Sovann’s overture. The cock has already crowed once, she thought, and found that she was unreasonably disappointed in her fat friend.

  It was Menhay’s turn for centre stage. He spoke clearly and with only a hint of self-importance. “Sovann Armstrong, you are under arrest for murder.”

  ♦

  Back at the Phnom Penh police headquarters, the woman accused of murder confounded them with her opening statement.

  “He deserved to die, of course,” said Sovann.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Menhay.

  Singh wondered whether the colonel was seeing a real flesh-and-blood woman or just a feather in his cap. A part of him knew he was being unfair. He had developed a healthy respect for the colonel before this arrest. Just because they disagreed on the guilt or innocence of Sovann Armstrong wasn’t a good enough reason to change his mind. After all, the evidence was with Menhay.

  Sovann did not mince her words. “I believe that Cheah Huon deserved to die – but I am sure you know that.”

  The interview was being conducted in English. Sovann had insisted, as a courtesy, she had said, to the visitor from Singapore. Menhay’s grinding teeth had been almost audible at this display of sang froid from his murderer. Singh nibbled on a fingernail and then stuck his hands in his pockets. He decided firmly that it was not the beauty of Sovann Armstrong that had him convinced of her innocence but the resilience he sensed in her. Women who had shown fortitude over a long period of time at the vicissitudes of life did not chuck it all in suddenly and stab someone.

  They were in a small interview room that smelt of piss and stale cigarette smoke and felt crowded despite being of a reasonable size. There were only four people in the room: Singh, Menhay, Chhean and the accused. The entourage from the Raffles were kicking their heels outside the building somewhere, no doubt filing reports with their various news agencies, all claiming the scoop for themselves. Quite a few of them would have greased the palms of officials, hoping to get an inside line on the story. Singh doubted they would have much success. So far at least, only the four people in the room and the pathologist were privy to all the information. Mr Jeremy Armstrong was elsewhere carrying through his various threats and promises to call everyone from the American embassy to the United Nations to protest the wrongful arrest of his wife.

  Singh decided that the sense of claustrophobia was a result of their gravitation to the centre of the room and away from the dirty stained walls. This was Cambodia and he didn’t need more evidence than the streaks of blood and snot and God-knows-what-else to know that it was frontier country as far as law and order went. He had been surprised that Menhay did not offer Sovann legal assistance
. Singh had intervened but Sovann had refused representation in the same quiet, faraway voice with which she had responded to the entire escapade.

  “I recognised him.”

  Singh’s ears pricked up. He looked at Sovann directly for the first time. She was sitting neatly, feet and knees together, on a plastic chair. The only concession to circumstances was her position on the edge of the seat. Although that might just have been fastidiousness – the seat too was stained like a piece of modern art.

  Menhay, who had been doing the questioning, looked like a drenched cat, surprised and uncomfortable. The questions and answers were not proceeding as he had intended or expected. Singh lit a cigarette, sucked in a lungful of tobacco-laden smoke and waited to see how Menhay was going to deal with this piece of information.

  “You recognised him?”

  “Yes, during his testimony to the tribunal.”

  Confronted with confounded silence from the investigator, Sovann obligingly took up the tale again. “Not immediately – he had changed a lot. When I knew him he didn’t have those injuries.”

  The inspector exhaled smoke rings, needing the concentration that the blowing of white circles required.

  “But when he turned to face the judges, I noticed a birthmark on his neck, a rose-coloured oval shape the size of a palm…”

  Singh remembered how Sovann had fainted towards the end of Huon’s appearance. If she had recognised him, it would explain the sudden loss of control. He couldn’t stop himself butting in. “Who was he then – this man with the birthmark?”

  She met his eyes unflinchingly. “The Khmer Rouge cadre who killed my father.”

  Eleven

  “What did you just say? Huon killed your father?” Singh’s tone was incredulous.

  All of them remembered the witness statement. Sovann Armstrong’s father had been bludgeoned to death by a Khmer Rouge cadre when she was eleven years old. But to suggest that it was Huon? Singh shook his head regretfully. The pathologist had been right with his far-fetched theories about individuals being pushed to breaking point by the dredging up of old memories. To believe that Huon had killed her father – that was madness, surely.