Menhay read criticism into his words and bristled. “A woman could have struck the blow, the pathologist confirmed it.”
Chhean noticed that Singh had shuffled backwards until he found himself leaning against the far wall. He lit a cigarette and watched proceedings carefully. He reminded Chhean of a bouncer in a karaoke lounge keeping an eye on a situation that had the potential to escalate into trouble.
“I don’t doubt you…or the pathologist for a moment,” said Adnan, his thin smile suggesting exactly the opposite.
“What is it that you want?” interrupted Singh.
Chhean guessed that Singh was tired of the game, whatever it was, that the UN man was playing. As was she – Adnan Muhammad was like a card sharp with an ace up the sleeve of his expensive striped shirt. Scrutinising him from head to foot, Chhean decided that she had never previously seen such a well-dressed man in Cambodia. Cambodia’s wealthy preferred their girth, rather than their clothes, to show their affluence. The children of the well-heeled adopted a flashier look altogether – black suits and black silk shirts.
“Inspector Singh – I am so pleased to see that you have taken your assignment to heart and are assisting the Cambodian police in their efforts.”
Chhean decided she liked his accent. He sounded like a newsreader from the BBC.
The fat policeman grunted and the thin line of ash at the point of his cigarette broke off and fell to the ground. Singh scattered it carefully with the toe of his sneaker, adding an indistinguishable layer to the grimy floor. She was sure he was being intentionally gross in his habits to offend the fussy bureaucrat.
“I have heard more about you from the Singapore authorities and realise how lucky we are to have you on board.”
Adnan wasn’t even pretending that he meant it. He hadn’t liked what he had heard and he was letting the inspector know it.
Singh grinned suddenly, like a satyr. Chhean guessed that he wouldn’t have expected glowing reviews from his bosses so he wasn’t disappointed. “It’s always good to know that the higher-ups are on the same side as the grunts.”
Chhean looked at the two men curiously. There was a power struggle going on but it was impossible to tell who was winning or what was at stake. She glanced at Singh. He looked indifferent to the barbs of the other man but she sensed an underlying tension. He too knew that this was more than a courtesy call by Adnan.
“There was another killing yesterday.”
Chhean was reluctantly impressed. The UN man had his ear to the ground if he already knew about Som’s murder. It had not been in the newspapers that morning. She wondered where his information was from – a policeman or a journalist?
“Does it have anything to do with this case?” he continued.
“Yes,” said Singh.
“No,” said Menhay almost simultaneously.
Adnan’s already thin lips formed a single straight line. “It’s good to see that cooperation between ASEAN nations is its usual triumph.”
Silence greeted this remark while the policemen glowered at each other like two bullies seeking mastery of the playground.
Adnan changed the subject abruptly. “Do you think this woman killed Huon?” The question was snapped at Singh.
“It’s possible. I think the situation merits further investigation,” replied Singh evenly under Menhay’s watchful gaze.
“And you?” This time the question was directed at the colonel like a guided missile.
“The evidence is clear – but we will keep looking into it.”
“The evidence is clear – that’s good to know. Has there been a confession?” Adnan asked the question as if he was seeking the time of day from a stranger – courteous yet distant.
Menhay shook his head. His short neck meant that his chin appeared to swivel on the mid-point between his shoulders. It was the robotic gesture of a man trying, and failing, to keep his antagonism from showing.
“That’s just as well really…” Adnan smiled thinly, “as someone else has confessed to the murder.”
Fourteen
Adnan Muhammad’s face was impassive but all of them sensed his satisfaction at their combined incredulity.
“It’s the husband,” he explained. “Jeremy Armstrong.”
“The husband? Of Sovann?” Menhay’s face was creased like an over-ripe mango.
“Yes,” said the UN man with an air of great patience which was patently false.
Singh was blunt. “He’s trying to protect his wife.”
Menhay nodded immediately, quick to seize an explanation that did not exonerate Sovann. “Of course, that’s it!”
“Not that we are convinced that Sovann is the murderer,” said Singh warningly. “We’re still examining the evidence.”
“Armstrong knew that this would be your attitude. That’s why he came to me. Also, he was afraid of the methods you might use to force him to recant – or to compel his wife to confess.” Adnan had resumed his usual patronising tone but for once neither of the cops was offended. They were both grappling with the suggestion that Jeremy Armstrong was the killer. Singh turned the idea around in his head like a cricketer examining the state of the ball.
Menhay was defensive. “The suspects have been treated with great respect.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Colonel Menhay. Everyone knows you try and follow the letter of the law. Some of your colleagues are not so…procedurally stringent.”
Why did Adnan speak as if his reading pleasure was derived entirely from dictionaries? “What exactly did Jeremy Armstrong say?” demanded Singh.
“This is his statement, which he has also released to the press.”
He handed over a neatly typed sheet to Singh. Singh read it quickly and gave it to the colonel, who was champing at the bit to get his hands on the document.
“I, Jeremy Armstrong, hereby confess to the murder of Cheah Huon by stabbing him to death at the war crimes tribunal premises.” It was signed and dated in black ink with a firm hand. There was nothing equivocal about the decision to confess if the handwriting was any evidence.
“This is completely unconvincing,” said Singh firmly. “There is no explanation as to why he would take it into his head to kill this man. I’ve seen it before – a confession to a crime that a loved one is accused of committing. This is a complication, not a solution!”
“He’s waiting for us outside,” said Adnan unexpectedly. “He knew you would take this attitude so he has come to convince you himself. He just needs reassurance that some of what he tells you does not get back to his wife.”
“Nobody tells me what I can say,” exclaimed Menhay.
Singh waved a plump hand at the colonel. “Let’s see what he has to tell us – he might shed some light on the case whether he killed Cheah Huon or not.”
“You’re right. If he’s confessed to protect his wife – that means he thinks his wife did it.” Menhay jabbed a blunt finger into Singh’s chest. “Which means you are the only person in the whole of Cambodia who believes that Sovann Armstrong is innocent.”
Singh grunted. It was certainly disheartening that even the spouse of this woman was convinced she had done it.
Adnan slipped out of the room and returned a few minutes later with the large American in tow. Jeremy Armstrong shuffled in sheepishly and stood before them with hunched shoulders and big feet close together. His body language suggested embarrassment rather than guilt.
Singh looked at him curiously. It was a big step to take, to confess to murder. He must know the evidence against his wife was compelling – news of the fingerprints had made it to the newspapers. On the other hand, he wasn’t giving the police much time to find an alternative suspect. Why was he so convinced of her guilt? Did he know something they didn’t? Or had he actually killed Huon?
“You guys mind if I sit down?” asked Armstrong. He spoke with a gentle drawl and his voice was both quiet and soothing. He sounded as if he was asking whether he could join a party of acquaintances a
t a pub.
Menhay indicated a chair and the husband of Sovann lowered himself into it carefully and ran a hand through his white-blond thinning hair. His face was flushed unhealthily but his pale-blue eyes met theirs without hesitation.
“I’m sorry I went to the UN instead of directly to the cops,” he said politely, directing his remarks at Menhay after a quick puzzled glance at Singh. He did not explain his decision and the colonel did not press him. It was self-evident after all. Armstrong needed people in authority to know where he was – so that he didn’t disappear forever into the bowels of a Cambodian prison.
“This is yours?” asked Singh, waving the confession at him as if it was a lottery ticket.
“Yes.” Armstrong cut to the chase immediately. “I killed Cheah Huon, the witness at the ECCC.”
Singh was almost admiring of his sheer gall.
“I would be really grateful if you would release my wife from custody immediately.” His tone became urgent. “There is no reason for you to keep her any longer.”
“Why should we believe you?”
Armstrong turned to look at Singh. “Why shouldn’t you? Who would confess to a murder he didn’t commit?”
“Someone who was trying to protect his wife, of course,” interjected Menhay.
Armstrong smiled rather sadly. “I suppose I should be honoured that you think I have such a capacity for self-sacrifice. I’ll be frank with you,” he continued, leaning forward as if he had secrets to impart. “I probably would have kept my mouth shut about what I’d done if you hadn’t arrested my wife. But I can’t let her suffer for my actions.”
“But why would you kill him?”
“Didn’t my wife explain that he was the Khmer Rouge cadre who murdered her father?”
“So you were taking revenge on her behalf?” Singh’s tone was highly sceptical. He tried to imagine himself leaping into the breach and killing someone on behalf of Mrs Singh. It was unthinkable. Besides, the only person she occasionally wanted dead was him. He snapped at Armstrong, “Is that the latest recipe for a happy marriage – one murder before bedtime?”
Armstrong leaned back in his chair and pressed a hand against his cheek as if he had a toothache or his neuralgia was kicking in with stress. “I knew you’d have trouble believing me. But I swear to you, I killed that bastard – and he deserved to die.”
There was no mistaking the anger in his voice when referring to Huon. Singh remembered that Sovann had expressed the same rage. Could they have worked together?
“Why kill him?” he asked.
“Huon wouldn’t have faced any consequences, would he? Only the head honchos of the Khmer Rouge are being tried. Men like Huon and Ta leng, who deserve to die a hundred times, are free to live their lives as they choose despite the people they destroyed.”
Singh watched the other man carefully. He was speaking in general terms but his anger was for his wife and it was genuine and intense. Could he really have done it?
“How?” the colonel asked. “How did you kill him?”
“I went to find him – I stopped at the kitchen and picked up a large kitchen knife.”
“So this was pre-meditated? You meant to kill him?”
“I don’t think I’d made up my mind, you know what I mean? I intended to confront the son of a bitch, that’s for sure…” He fell silent as if he was remembering subsequent events but reluctant to divulge them.
“What happened next?” demanded Menhay impatiently. Singh glanced at him. His expression was one of irritation rather than interest. He didn’t believe this man. He was still convinced Sovann was the murderer. But he knew he had to hear Armstrong out – if for no other reason than that Adnan Muhammad was still in the room, a quiet, brooding presence.
“We had an argument. Huon denied being Khmer Rouge at first. When I persisted, he finally confessed. He laughed at me – can you believe it? He said there was nothing I could do, nothing at all.” Armstrong clasped his hands together as if in prayer. “I got mad – the knife was stuck into the back of my trousers. I pulled it out and stabbed him.” He shrugged and said defiantly. “I don’t have one single moment of regret.”
The narrative was consistent with the evidence which had been in the newspapers but failed to explain the curious knife angle. Singh scowled. It was one thing to use the unexpected forensic detail as evidence that Sovann was innocent, it was quite another thing to exonerate everyone over five feet in height as a possible killer. He decided reluctantly that there was probably an explanation for the angle of entry that was unrelated to the height of the killer. Perhaps whoever it was played lawn bowls rather than cricket and preferred an underarm action. If this American really was the killer, he probably spent every Friday at a bowling alley rather than playing baseball.
“Does your wife know of your confession?” he demanded abruptly.
There was a brief shake of the head from Armstrong. “I haven’t been allowed to see her.”
“She’s going to be very upset.”
“I hope she’ll understand why I did it.”
“Which is more than we do,” insisted the fat man. “Nothing you’ve said convinces me or my colleague here that you killed Huon. I think you’re just protecting your wife. It’s very charming, of course,” he added sarcastically. “Maybe someone will make a film about it but it’s just a big waste of police time!”
Armstrong sighed. “I knew you’d feel this way and I can’t say I blame you. But what you don’t understand is that I owe my wife – I owe Cambodia – a reckoning. This was my payback. Killing Huon was my payback.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Menhay’s right knee was bouncing up and down with aggravation as he listened to this elliptical justification.
“What I’m about to tell you – can you guys swear not to tell my wife?”
“Why?” It was Singh who snapped the question.
“It would destroy her…” There were tears in his eyes. Singh was taken aback by this sudden show of emotion from a man who had confessed to murder without batting an eyelid.
“We can’t make a deal like that,” explained Menhay in an almost kindly tone. He must have noted the other man’s distress as well and didn’t have the heart to exploit it. “However, we will not reveal the secret if it is not necessary to the investigation. That is the best offer I can make you.”
“And if I refuse to tell you without your promise?”
“If you refuse to tell me, I will charge you with obstruction of justice – and Sovann with the murder. Perhaps, if you are lucky, you might get cells that are side by side.”
Singh nodded approvingly. The colonel had leverage and he was not afraid to use it. Adnan stirred slightly but did not interfere.
Armstrong folded his arms. It should have indicated solidity of purpose. It came across as defensive. The American was afraid – not of spending the rest of his life in jail but of his long-held secret getting back to his wife. Singh was on tenterhooks.
“You don’t know this but I’ve worked with Cambodian refugees since as far back as 1979. The original trickle to the US turned into a flood and I helped out with resettlement, counselling and now the gathering of witness testimony for the tribunal.”
His words were met with silence. Singh had no idea where this was going but he was prepared to wait and see.
“I met my wife at a refugee centre. When she arrived from Cambodia, Sovann was fifteen years old and could not or would not speak. Not a single word. She had witnessed her father murdered and lost the rest of her family to famine and disease.”
Singh nodded. It was not an unusual tale in this most unusual of nations.
“I worked with her for a long time. Finally, when I had just about given up hope that I would ever get through to her, she learnt to trust me. I guess she started to care for me just a little bit and one day – I still remember the moment – she began to speak again. She told me that her family had fled rural Cambodia because of the American bombings �
�� two of her grandparents and a young brother were killed. They moved to Phnom Penh as refugees, living on the edge of town, until they were kicked out by the Khmer Rouge and…well, I think you know the rest.”
“It doesn’t explain why you would kill a man for your wife’s sake – or for Cambodia’s.” The last few words were spoken by Menhay with all the disgust of a true patriot for a foreigner’s claim to involvement.
“We were married a few years later – she was nineteen and just about able to begin a new life. You’ve got to understand, there was no way she could forget the past but at least she saw a future too.”
“What is the secret that you don’t want your wife to know?” Menhay smacked the table in accompaniment to each heavily emphasised word. Obviously, thought Singh, smiling slightly, the colonel was not a romantic.
“I was a B-52 bomber pilot with the US Air Force. I flew hundreds of sorties over Cambodia in the seventies, during Kissinger’s secret war.”
♦
Adnan had left. Armstrong had been taken to a holding cell to kick his heels and, as Menhay put it, reconsider his decision to commit perjury. He refused to release Sovann despite the confession. Menhay was leaning against a grubby wall, a pensive expression on his face. Chhean sat unobtrusively at the back of the room, watching the policemen and contemplating what Armstrong had said.
“A B-52 pilot,” muttered Menhay. “By some estimates, the Americans killed over two hundred thousand Cambodians in Operation Menu.”
“Menu?” asked Singh.
“Each attack had a different code, Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner…”
The fat man paced up and down like a clockwork toy. It was an unusually active display from the policeman who preferred to sit like the Buddha with his hands clasped lovingly over his ample belly. Chhean suspected it reflected his mental turmoil at events.
“Why?” he demanded. “Why did they attack Cambodia?”
Menhay gestured with open palms. “They claimed to be chasing Viet Cong…they lied to the press and the US Congress.” The muscles in his neck were taut. “It was years before the true scale of the bombing became known.”
A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree Page 17